Lull
by Br33zy
Summary: Sleep, dear child. Close those pretty blues, lovely child. I am not asking for much. I have nothing against you. I just want a taste.  It's not like I'm going to KILL you or anything.
1. Chapter One

**Lull**  
_Some things are not as simple as they appear_

* * *

(Psst. I know a good number of you crazy Fortuneshippers are only here for the Lucas/Dawn tag. They don't enter the story until chapter four, with a brief appearance in chapter three. Stick around. =P)

**Rated**: T (PG-14+) for explicit language, sexual innuendo, and violence  
**Genre**: Fantasy/Friendship  
**World**: Game  
**Verse**: Generation IV, D/P

**Synopsis**: Lane Eldritch likes dragon pokémon cards. So much so that he would do almost _anything_ for them, even Francis's stupid dare about entering the old, supposedly haunted, Harbor Inn. Then something weird happens the next day; Lane won't wake up, and his worried parents have no idea why. A sullen Lucas, Sinnoh's latest poké mon champion and Rowan's renowned apprentice, is forced to help solve this mystery by cheerful co-researcher Dawn. It's not easy trying to fight someone else's demons when you have your own you're trying to bury.

_Lull_ is an expansion of the cresselia event that takes place in the Diamond & Pearl games, though it also touches on other events in the games. If you cannot remember what that event is about, it is pretty much: 1) Player character goes to Canalave and finds that Eldritch, the sailor that earlier took him/her to Iron Island, has a problem involving his son; 2) Eldritch asks player character to help him by going to Fullmoon Island and retrieving a Lunar Wing. I realized that a whole helluva lot could be done with this plot, especially on Eldritch's side of things. Characterizations, specifically Lucas's, were influenced by the other events in the game, specifically the Team Galactic plot.

This is currently my fan fiction baby that drives me nuts and makes me giggly at the same time. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. =) Thanks for reading.

* * *

Myth: sacred narrative used to explain the view of a people.

Cynthia likes myths. I don't. They're essentially stories weaved by the naïve who, in a desperate attempt for truth, pass it along to their people until this myth becomes a reality in their minds. It doesn't work like that. Somewhere is an answer, a solid truth, that can be analyzed, defined, and contextualized.

No, I'm not a fan of myth. I blame myth for the current state of the Sinnoh championship, the state of our region–why I had to concern with issues bigger than me. That should have been Cynthia's job, not mine. I was only a kid. She left the region–no, the world–to me, gave me a few words of advice, and pushed me forward. I was pissed.

I digress. It doesn't matter. It's my rule now. She can loll about in Fairy Tale Land for all I care. I like to stick to what is true. Solid fact.

...

It's a girl.

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

Once upon a time in a not far off place lived a boy. Let's call him Lane. He was your average kid, a height of four feet, four and a half inches (the exact amount matters when you're eight and a half), and relatively thin of frame.

The boy also had ears. They were big and stuck out, like airplane wings. Zoom! But they were big, pointy ears – and don't you dare say elf-shaped. He had a strange dislike of elves ever two Christmases ago where a group of elves made him _DANCE_ (the horror!), and he missed his chance with Santa – and darn, all he really wanted to do was ask him for a new set of toy cars (which he would begrudgingly mention he did not get by the way), and everyone laughed, making him aware of the huge stature of his ears, and – well, the main point is not to associate Lane with elves. But that's for another time. Right now it's time to focus on the current issue: running. Quickly, too, otherwise that would be jogging.

Lane was good at running, believe it. He liked to run everywhere. Up the street to school. Down the street to the library. To the left for the docks. To the right for more docks. Running and docks and sea and school and friends and pokémon were all he knew. He liked running across the drawbridge, his sneakers making funny noises as they slapped against the wooden planks. Every time he had to walk across the bridge, he made sure to stop in the middle where the bridge would separate in two and stare out toward the sea. He gripped the metal railing with sticky hands and pulled himself up, his feet dangling in the air. The salty wind whipped his hair around.

This was Canalave, Lane's home for eight-and-a-half-years, and he liked it lots because it was all he knew. The sunsets were always orange and yellow and pink, brighter at the horizon where the sun was beginning to set and darker the further up he looked. In class, they learned how to draw sunsets–you need at least five colors, preferably in order from bright to dark–because that's what Canalave is known for: the pretty sunsets that made the ocean look like it was on fire.

Or was it the docks? Canalave wasn't much of a tourist attraction despite its pretty sunsets and coastlines, but people from other regions used the city as a port, a place to drop off and load goods from all over the world.

Or maybe it was the ships. Lane couldn't remember. History was awfully boring.

"Get off the bridge, kid!" he heard one of the workers yell. "A ship is going out!"

Right. It was definitely the ships.

He laughed and scampered off the bridge back onto the concrete sidewalk on the other side, continuing toward his destination: the local pokémart. It was a part of a chain of markets with its trademark blue roof, though Canalave tried to separate its market from the pack by embedding its walls with the local sand and seashells. He could make out the figure of a girl picking at the wall with her fingernail while another boy stood next to her, fiddling with something in his hands. He saw the girl turn her head.

"Laney!" she squealed loudly, causing the boy next to her to look up. "You're here!"

"Hurry it up, Dumbo!" yelled the other friend. "We've been waiting forever!"

Lane gasped for breath, something rattling inside one of the pockets of his dirty jeans. "Guys!" he shouted, his right hand reaching for the item inside his pocket and pulling it out with a few quick tugs. He finally reached the group after running up the store's ramp, wiping a light sweat off his brow. "Look! My dad gave me these!" Lane excitedly opened the palm of his hand, revealing a small canvas bag. He pulled on the strings and opened the bag to reveal marbles the size and shape of his irises. Besides the generic cat's eyes marbles, a few marbles with red tops and white bottoms glinted in the sunlight.

"Your dad gave you pokéballs?" the girl questioned excitedly. "Wow!"

"What? No," Lane muttered, quickly pulling the bag away. He pulled one of the shiny spheres out. "It's just a marble. But it totally looks like one, doesn't it?"

The older boy slapped the bag, making the glass marbles rattle. "Who cares about your stupid marbles?" Lane looked up from his marble and glared. "Especially when I got this beauty?" The other boy held up the group of cards in his hands and plucked one of them out, kissing it.

Lane threw the marble back in the bag, holding back a sigh at the lackluster reaction. "What is it?"

"This, baby!" After giving his oily, blond hair a cocky flick, the boy revealed the front of the card to Lane's curious eyes. On the card was a picture of a dragonite, a metallic sheen behind it. "Beautiful, ain't it?"

"You got _another _dragonite card?" Lane asked in disbelief. "And a metallic one, too!"

"Well, Laney Boy," at this, the boy wiped the front of the card on his mustard-stained polo to rid it of fingerprints, "I'll gladly trade you this card ... for the right price."

Immediately, Lane's free hand jumped to the back pocket of his jeans where he kept his collection of pokémon cards. He patted it and felt nothing. Well, crud. He forgot his collection. He could run home and get them – no, that wouldn't work. His friends wouldn't wait for him again, and the pudgy boy wasn't the most reasonable of people either.

Looking back and forth between his friends and his back pocket, Lane feebly pulled up his bag of marbles and sheepishly murmured, "I'll trade you your card for my marbles."

His friend laughed, fingers wiping at his nose. "Pathetic," he said, snorting. He plucked out a card from the stack and flung it at Lane. "But here, Midget. Since I'm such a nice guy and all, I'll let you keep this one." The boy scampered down the ramp, the girl following him, leaving Lane behind and staring at the fallen card. Big, wide eyes embedded in a tiny, blob-like body stared back up at him. A castform. It was nothing special, and he had a few of them at home, too. He didn't know why he bothered to pick it up and pocket it. A card was a card was a card, he supposed.

Still, he couldn't help but whine as he chased after his friends heading toward the railing that served as a barrier between the land and sea. They were watching a ship leave the Canalave docks, blowing its horn as the drawbridge raised to let it out. He hopped on the curb and grabbed at the cold railing, leaning back. "C'mon, Francis," he begged. "You already have that card! You know how bad I want it!"

"Heck no!" argued Francis, his eyes cast forward toward the docks. Waves crash into the docks' wooden pillars. Boats that bobbed in the water reflected the sun.

"C'mon!" Lane whined again. "I'll do anything!" He should have stopped there. No good would come from this.

Sure enough, Francis's eyes rolled toward the side. "Anything, huh?" the bigger boy sneered.

Lane gulped but nodded anyway.

"Okay, then." Francis hopped off the curb. He clapped the smaller Lane on the back, making him choke on saliva, and urged him forward. Shoes scuffing on dry concrete sounded. That one girl followed behind, annoyingly asking–in that annoying, high-pitched voice that only girls had–where they were going. Of course she was ignored, making her whine more.

The walk wasn't long. Francis stopped them in front of an old, rickety building, its shingle roof in shambles and its lawn unkempt. The fence–or what remained of it–surrounding the building was weather-worn, the wood splotched and splintered. One of the front windows was cracked and smudged while the other window was nothing more than a gaping hole, letting in whistling sea wind that pushed back dusty, red curtains.

"I dare you to open the door."

The old Harbor Inn, as Lane recalled. His dad told him that years ago, even before Lane was born, the Inn was a thriving, popular building which gave home to sailors stopped in town. But something happened to the old man who ran it (died, Lane figured), and ever since, the Inn had been shut down. People have tried to revive the building back to its lively state but rumor had that the building was haunted. Or maybe no one cared. Something like that.

"No way!" protested Lane, his voice almost squeaking. He jumped a bit at the sound of creaky hinges, marbles rattling in his pocket, and he quickly snapped his head to find the source. It was the old Harbor Inn sign that hung above the doorway of the building, the white paint flecked and bits of it resting in the grooves of the letters.

"Yeah, Francis!" begged the girl. "Don't make him do _that_! It's dangerous in there!"

"Quit your worryin', Julie." Francis glared at the girl before turning his attention toward Lane, a glint in his eye. "Do you want this or not?" He pulled out the dragonite card from his pocket and waved it back and forth in front of Lane's eyes.

"Don't do it, Laney!" pleaded Julie, brown pigtails waving wildly in the ocean's gusts. "The ghosts will get you!"

Francis snorted. "Ghosts, Julie? Please."

Julie huffed, blowing up the bangs that teased her forehead. She crossed her arms, a slight wrinkle in her nose. "They exist, I swear! How can you explain why there's sometimes a light on inside there?" She let out another frantic gasp of breath, wild greens turning toward Lane. "Don't do it, Laney!" she repeated in a shrill voice, making Lane cringe. Small fingers wrapped around Lane's upper arm again, making him cringe again. "I won't let you!"

"For Arceus's sake, Julie. Get off him." Lane felt the girl's nails dig into his upper arm, which made him wrinkle his nose, as she desperately fought against Francis' grasp. His arm was getting more sweaty. Then cool air – she let go. Francis turned toward him and gave him a look that clearly said, "Go. Unless you're a chicken." If only his facial expression read, "Let's get pie!" He did enjoy pie.

Not wanting to displease or look like he was scared out of his mind (which he was, but whatever), Lane ignored the pleas of Julie and walked past the broken fence and up the cracked pathway toward Harbor Inn's porch, stepping over a trail of ants. The rickety door and its imperfections became clearer the closer he walked. He noted the cracks, jagged lines that zigzagged across the wood in no coherent pattern, and another chipped paint job, red flakes peeling off and revealing old oak. The doorknob was rusted, its keyhole scratched at like someone before him dared, or was stupid enough, to enter the supposedly haunted building.

Another gust of wind – he wasn't sure if he shivered because of that or the butterfree that flew restlessly in his stomach. It was an emotion that suppressed the current dislike he had for Francis's dare, but all Lane could do was channel that nervous, jumpy energy to another physical source: the door.

His feet rested on the first concrete step leading to the old inn's porch, and he turned his head, looking at his friends. Francis was edging him on and smirking – but that wasn't anything new. Julie, meanwhile, was watching him bug-eyed, biting at her pink nail-polished fingernails. Lane turned back toward the door and breathlessly pushed his legs up onto the porch, resting both feet firmly on the ground.

No ghosts. No motion. Nothing. He could do this.

Shaky hands and trembling fingers reached for the rusted doorknob. He jiggled it. Nothing ... again. The door remained locked and stood that way even after several years of neglect. A harder jiggle. Still locked. Two hands now? Nope. What if he leaned all his weight on the knob? Negative. Kicking? Kicking always worked. ... Nope.

Lane gave the door a final annoyed kick, leaving a footprint on it, before turning around and shrugging toward his friends. "It won't open!"

"Try harder!" Francis yelled back, waving the dragonite card tauntingly.

Determined to get that card out of Francis' stubby, sausage-like fingers (sausage-like fingers that were surely smudging the glossy sheen of the card), Lane turned around, spat on his hands, rubbed them together and attacked the doorknob again with vigor, eyebrows furrowed. He rammed into the door with his shoulder, the pound hurting more than helping the cause, but he continued to push into the solid wood anyway, hands still twisting at the knob. He focused on the broken window ahead, red curtains fluttering outside the frame in the sea breeze.

Then eyes. Sharp ones–blue ones–that peeked out at him from the corner of the broken window. Curtains fell back and eyes were gone.

Before he could register what the heck that was, a sharp pain shocked the hand holding the doorknob and ran through his arm, and he jumped back, yelping, sucking at dirty fingers–thump!–something kicked from inside the inn, but that was impossible as nothing actually lived inside the inn, right?–thump! There! The door! He was sure of it this time!

Lane turned toward the door and knocked. More power, Lane. Weak knocks never get answered. Maybe if you knock repeatedly. Use the palm of your hand – no, the side of your fist. Knuckles will get you nowhere in life and neither will weak knocks. Your foot – kicking! Kicking is always the solution! ... Still nothing.

"There's someone in there!" Lane turned around, waving frantically to get his friends' attention, curiosity overwhelming his nervousness. "I think I saw someone through the window!"

"See!" Julie squealed, tugging at her pigtails. "I told you there were ghosts!"

Francis tuned out the high-pitched squeaks that poured out of Julie's mouth and focused on Lane who still stood on the ancient porch. "I swear to Arceus, Lane. If you go in there now, I will give you all the dragon pokémon cards I have."

All of them? Francis, known for his pokémon card collection at school, was bound to have all the good dragon pokémon cards. He craved them. He wanted them – badly. And he was already here anyway.

Since the door was locked and his frame was too weak to push it down, the only way in would be through the broken window. Running a hand through his black locks, Lane jumped off the concrete porch back onto the unkempt lawn, some of the weeds reaching up to his knees. He brushed past them, amusedly thinking he was an explorer in the heart of the jungle as he kicked the weeds down, squishing them under his feet. He was tall, too, in this adventure and grew into his jumbo ears. Crunch, crunch. Broken glass littered in the weeds, maybe?

He sneezed as another puff of wind blew. He felt the old velvet, his fingers picking up dust and making him sneeze again. He peeled the heavy curtain back, peering inside.

The eyes again, a deep blue embedded in ... nothing? No, it had a shape, sort of. Blob-like but tall, kind of fat. Dark – or was it because it was in the shadows? They stared at him–the eyes he meant–but the figure cowered in the corner of the dusty room. Clammy sweat. Piercing ... heart racing. Then a thought, a whisper – was it out loud? No, it was in his head.

I am watching you – wait. Why would he think that?

I know who you are. Know what?

I am coming for–

"Lane Eldritch! What in the world do you think you're doing?"

**Last edited April 26, 2011**


	2. Chapter Two

Every day is a struggle. It's not your classic struggle to survive; it's a struggle of self-identification. I have to constantly remind myself of who I am and what my purpose is. In an attempt to make something of yourself, you tend to lose who you are – or the person whose intentions were once good. It's pathetic, I know.

People are easily corruptible. Sex, money, power – people often use one to get another, and it becomes an endless cycle. You want more for some reason, and you'll do anything for it. But in the end, it means nothing.

I don't understand people. I really don't.

...

Age: Fourteen, possibly fifteen.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

* * *

It was time to panic. Lane quickly turned around, dropping the curtain and letting it flap with nature, eyes wide. There, standing next to his friends who were also looking at the source of the screeching voice, was a snarling creature. Its eyes were narrowed into slits of fury, and long claws–okay, nails–were clenched into fists that rested next to powerful thighs disguised underneath the friendly facade of floral print.

The creature shouted, "You come here right now!"

"But Mom!" whined Lane, stamping his foot. "I saw–"

"Now, young man!"

A weird noise, a mixture between a growl and whimper, escaped Lane's mouth as he moved forward toward the fence, kicking down gnarled weeds with his head bowed down.

"Busted," snickered Francis as Lane exited the old inn's yard.

Lane Eldritch's mom, a usually pleasant woman, was furious, her hands on the waist of her skirt. In between her fingers was a plastic shopping bag filled with groceries. "Well?" she demanded.

"Well ..." her son murmured back, trailing off, eyes still cast toward the floor. Dry, chewed up pieces of gum littered the ground almost decoratively.

"Look at me, Lane."

Meek blue met mad blue.

"... Francis said if I went inside, I'd get all his dragon pokémon cards!" Lane blurted out after his mom stared him down for a few seconds. There was something about his mom's stare that could make him say anything. The smaller boy averted his gaze from the bigger boy. He felt cold daggers coming his way.

"If Francis told you to jump off a bridge, would you?" his mother retorted.

Would he got pokémon cards if he did? Was there water under the bridge? Were they at a water park? Lane loved water parks.

Lane's mother took notice of Lane's dazed state. "Lane Adam Eldritch!" Uh oh. The middle name. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Mom," he grumbled.

She didn't believe him. "You're coming home. Say goodbye to your friends." She grabbed Lane by the upper arm and pulling him with her, high heels clicking on pavement. "And don't think your dad isn't going to hear about this."

Lane looked back toward his friends in horror and abject confusion, reluctantly following his mom across town. His friends' faces responded: shock and smirking satisfaction.

Did he mention how much he hated Francis's dare?

**. . .**

His name is Lance.

No, forget Lane! Lane is gone! Lane and his big ears and short legs are not on this world! Lane, who is grounded and had all his video games taken away for a week for apparently intruding on "sacred ground" (whatever that means), is no more! He is Lance now, the greatest dragon pokémon tamer in all of Kanto–no, the entire world!

Lane tied a blanket around his neck and bounced on his bed, making springs groan and creak with each bounce. He jumped off, landing gracefully on the shaggy, white carpet, and pointed up, yelling, "Use Dragon Rage, Dragonite!" before dropping to the floor and rolling around.

There was a time once where Lane's mom asked about her son's infatuation with dragons and Lance, the greatest dragon tamer in Kanto–no, the entire world!–and why he didn't look up to ... closer pokémon idols like, let's say, Cynthia, who was in the region and could be easily seen at a local event (and to be fair, Lane's mom was somewhat bitter about Lane's birthday present and the expensive train ticket which connected Sinnoh to Kanto where Lane's almighty god in his sweet, sweet mortal flesh was, and Lane just _had_ to see him because MOM, HE'S BRINGING ALL THREE, YES THREE, DRAGONITE), and his response, filled with gasps and looks of horror was this: Cynthia's a _GIRL_, Mom! Besides, there are a multitude of reasons why Lance, the greatest dragon tamer in Kanto–no, the entire world!–is better than Cynthia. Lance, on his time off, fought bad guys. Literally, he kicked them out of the way. Awesome. Cynthia, on the other hand, researched myths. Pfft! Oh, and she didn't wear a cape. Lame.

"Are you not going to talk to him?" whispered Lane's mom as she watched her boy.

"About why he was rolling on the floor or–"

The sly remark was returned with a light punch on a shoulder and a small smile as Mrs. Eldritch stepped back a bit to look her husband in the eye. A jolly man but tough, muscles barely contained by the sleeves of his shirt, though he was starting to get a little chubby around the belly. He returned his wife's affection with a laugh.

"Come off it, Alyson," he said quietly, regaining composure, his face basked in the slim, golden light coming out of Lane's bedroom. "It wasn't that big of a deal. Kids go in there all the time."

"Eldritch, he tried to climb through the window! This wasn't just a run to the door, knock, then run back sort of thing! He really was trying to go in! He could have gotten hurt! What if he got inside but couldn't get out? No one would know where he was!"

"He was with friends," Eldritch argued. He gently pulled his wife away into the shadows of the narrow hallway. "He would have been fine. He's a growing boy, Aly. He's going to get into trouble."

A cluck made its way out of Alyson's mouth. "I'm all for boys being boys but not when it could seriously hurt him. I was lucky that I was in that area to stop him."

"Relax, Aly. You've got to let him go sometimes. In two years' time–"

"Don't," she interrupted, wincing. She looked toward Lane's partially open door. "Just don't."

"You know how bad he wants to be one."

"I know he does. And we both know I'm going to let him become a trainer once he does get his trainer's license. But I'd rather not think about it ... not until I absolutely have to."

The muscular man put his hands behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I suppose." He paused, head still pointed up but eyes pointed down toward his wife. "You want me to talk to him?"

She nodded.

"About?"

"Just ... talk to him, really. Get him ready for bed, too. It's late."

Eldritch put his hand on Alyson's shoulder and lightly squeezed it before brushing past her toward his kid's room where a bouncing Lane – or Lance, the greatest dragon tamer in Kanto–no, the entire world!–pulled the pillow off his bed and threw it toward the wall, cackling like a witch.

Lane turned toward the door as soon as Eldritch entered. "Who dare enters the great lair of Lance, the greatest dragon tamer of the world!" boomed Lane, a frightening creature clad in blue, cotton pajamas as he outstretched an arm that held a marble pokéball.

"I do! Prepare yourself!" proclaimed his father as he ran into the room, scooped up the pillow, and dashed toward a giggling Lane. Eldritch tackled into Lane with the pillow before picking him up and playfully (but carefully he would say to Alyson) threw him onto the bed. Lane growled and hopped onto his feet, but his father had other plans. He sat on the edge of the bed, making it groan from all the weight, and patted the space next to him. A shy Lane emerged from caped shoulders and marble-clutched hands and sat next to his father, legs swinging across the side. He knew why his father was here.

"It wasn't my fault," the boy remarked after a few seconds of silence. He bowed his head, avoiding his father's gaze by staring at his bed covers. "Francis said if I went inside, he'd give me all his dragon pokémon cards."

His father nodded.

"And I had to go in, Dad!"

"Had to?"

"Well ..." Lane fumbled with his words, fidgeting with the marble between his fingers. "Yeah! It was the only way Francis would give me his card!"

"And what is so special about this card?" asked Eldritch, ruffling Lane's hair with an affectionate palm.

Lane's nose scrunched up from the action. "Dragon pokémon are the best!" he proclaimed, swatting his father's hand away. "Real trainers are dragon pokémon tamers!"

A sly smile formed on Eldritch's face. "Real men are sailors."

"Daaad ..." the boy whined. Lane, for as long as he could remember, was often told that by his father. He had no idea why. Sailors didn't wear capes after all. "Dragon pokémon are awesome! They're so strong, and they look so cool!"

"Don't go judging a book by its cover, Lane." At this, Eldritch dug around his pocket and pulled out a pokémon card bent at the corners. "Strength can come in all shapes and sizes."

Lane eagerly took the card in his hands, but his smile soon dropped when he realized it was the castform card from earlier.

"I found those in your jeans when you threw them in the hamper."

"Oh," quietly replied Lane, fixing the bent corner of the card before stretching over and placing it on his nightstand. The friendly, big eyes of the castform stared up toward the ceiling. "Can you keep a secret, Dad?"

"Hmm?" Eldritch quickly snapped his head toward his son. Lane was beaming, his eyes shining in the light of his lamp. He wrapped an arm around Lane's shoulders and pulled him in comfortingly.

Lane looked at the door, then at his dad, then at the door again, eyes wide with excitement. "Well," he began in a low voice, "I saw something in Harbor Inn today."

Bugs? A bidoof? Another small smile made its way to his face as Eldritch asked, "What?"

"Eyes!"

Eldritch looked at Lane, a bit bewildered. "Eyes?" he repeated. "What do you mean by that?"

Lane nodded eagerly. "In the Inn, Dad! They were blue! I was going to check it out"–he grumbled–"until Mom stopped me."

If Lane noticed the flash of worry that crossed his dad's face, it quickly disappeared. Eldritch gave his son's hair another ruffle. "Must have been an exciting day."

"It was, Dad!" The boy bounced up and down on his bed, ruffling his sheets. "I wish stupid Francis gave me the card, though."

A small chuckle made its way through Eldritch's lips as he reached over and untied the blanket around Lane's shoulders, draping it across the bed. "Well, you can't have it your way all the time." He looked at the pokéball-shaped alarm clock on Lane's nightstand. Glaring red lights told him it was forty-six minutes past eight. "All right, kid. Time for bed."

An annoying whine but Eldritch expected it. "It's too early!"

"Bed," his old man repeated in a firmer tone. "You still have school tomorrow and that big spelling test." Eldritch stood up and walked around Lane, peeling back his comforter and looking down. Water pokémon on his son's bedsheets looked back at him. "Get in."

Begrudgingly, Lane obeyed, crawling, back arched, toward his pillows. He flopped onto his belly, muffling his whines before rolling onto his back, kicking the comforter back with socked feet. "You believe me, don't you?" he asked as he slipped into his sheets, resting his head against the pillows.

His father pulled the comforter back. "About the eyes?"

Lane nodded.

"Of course, Lane. Now night."

"G'night, Dad!" The boy snuggled into his sheets and turned toward the wall.

Taking a final glance at his son's back, Eldritch strolled across the room toward the door and flicked off the switch. The light of the street posts leaked through the blinds covering Lane's bedroom window, leaving a striped pattern of gold and shadow on his small frame. He heard Lane squirm, the bed creaking, but this wasn't uncommon; when awake, the kid was a ball of energy. The door creaked as he opened it (Eldritch made a mental note to take a look at that tomorrow) and exited, leaving the door open a bit as another source of light for Lane. As much as Lane protested that he wasn't afraid of the dark, the boy couldn't sleep without his door being slightly ajar.

Sailors liked to talk. A lot. Mostly about nothing. How was the trip? I heard it was stormy in Hoenn a few days ago; you make it back all right? How are the kids? Johnny got in trouble again, huh? When do you ship out again? Did you get some? Some what – oh! Heh. Maybe. But no one likes to hear about that. When sailors talk, the only thing people remember are the epic tales. That and hearty language. Stereotypes. Oh well.

Eyes. Eldritch took a few steps away from his son's room before pressing his back against the hallway's wall, filing through stories he retained in his head throughout the years. Eyes and the Inn. It sounded familiar. Some say the Inn is haunted. Any attempts to renovate were stopped due to some mishap. Or maybe no one cared. Something like that. They were tales, the sailor reminded himself. Talk. That was all it was. Exaggerated talk. But eyes? Just eyes? What the hell did that mean?

"Eldritch? You okay?" With her arms wrapped around a basket of laundry, Alyson stopped in front of her husband and stared at him worriedly.

You should tell her. No. Aly wouldn't believe such crap. "Nothing," sheepishly replied Eldritch. "Just lost in my thoughts."

Alyson nodded, shifting her head to look at Lane's bedroom door. "Did you put him to bed?"

"I did."

"Good." She thrust the basket of laundry into the surprised arms of her husband. "Now come. I need help with the laundry." She heard him mutter something incoherent.

They walked past Lane's room, and Alyson couldn't help but peer inside. She watched him wiggle like a worm on a wet sidewalk, tossing about before he turned toward the door, the hallway light enveloping his face in a warm glow. It startled her how startled he looked.

She knew he was still mad at her, and the last thing he wanted was her getting cuddly and kissy all over his precious face. Still, she couldn't help but let it out: "I love you, Lane. Sweet dreams."

The boy smiled. "Night, Mom." Lane was getting older and therefore was embarrassed in saying the "L" word back to dear momma. One day he would say it again. She kept those thoughts nestled in the back of her mind.

It was now fifty seven minutes past eight, and Lane still couldn't sleep. He settled on his left side, staring out the window. Through the blinds he made out the night sky. Stars winked back at him. No moon. Maybe there was a moon somewhere. He couldn't see it.

With one fidgety leg, Lane decided to kick a socked foot toward the wall, making loud thumping noises that traveled down the quiet hallway toward the living room where the married couple sat. That'll teach them. What, exactly, he didn't know.

Thump, thump, thump!

"Do you have work tomorrow?" asked Alyson. She reached over and pulled a t-shirt from the basket.

"The docks," Eldritch answered. "I should be home for dinner tomorrow."

Thump, thump! Eight fifty-eight.

"That's good."

Unlike his wife, Eldritch carelessly folded a pair of his son's jeans and haphazardly threw them toward the floor. He shrugged at the glare his wife gave him and reached for the remote control resting on the coffee table. His wife stopped him.

"Wait," she said over more thumps. "Not until he falls asleep."

Thump!

"Oh, who knows how long that will be. He seems restless tonight," Eldritch argued. Nevertheless, he sat back, leaving the remote where it was.

Thump ... thump ...

Alyson clicked her tongue. "That boy has too much energy. I wish he'd be a little quieter."

Thump ... Eight fifty-nine.

"Yeah, well ..." Eldritch shrugged again.

There was silence for quite some time as folding continued. The coo-coo clock rang nine times, the tiny spearow figurine popping in and out of its wooden confinement. The thumps ceased. Lane had fallen asleep and the television was turned on.

**Last revised: April 26, 2011**


	3. Chapter Three

I like being alone. I'm not sure why. The peace, maybe. I don't feel pressured to finish my projects. I'm better this way. I don't need anyone to help me.

I'm not sure why she's here. She slows me down. I function by doing things myself. Everyone–mentors, gym leaders, anyone who had a sense of power over me–made me feel like no one can do a better job of taking care of you than yourself. If you want something done right, do it yourself, and don't you dare get connected to the people involved. When you start caring, when you start loving, when you start empathizing, you lose sight of the bigger picture. Such useless emotion ... It's illogical and irrational. I think someone told me that. I don't remember who.

...

Hair color: Dark blue.  
Height: Roughly five foot.  
Weight: Specimen wouldn't give me the chance to analyze this.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

He went down the street. He was in Jubilife.

Why?

He wasn't sure. A lot of kids from school were walking in the opposite direction.

He was in the mood for ice cream.

. . .

"Lane!" shouted Alyson. "Come on! It's already seven-thirty, and your breakfast is getting cold! You're going to be late for school!"

No response. No loud stomping. No doors creaking. No water running. Nothing.

Wiping damp fingers across her jeans, Alyson turned off the tap of the kitchen sink and shuffled across the floor. She kicked off her slippers as soon as she reached the carpet of her living room, letting her toes sink into its thickness before heading down the narrow hallway. It was dusty in here, spider webs hanging from the ceiling, but with Lane being the handful that he is and a never-ending basket of laundry needing to be washed or folded ... Ah, it wasn't the time to think about what she had to do later. What important was now, and what needed to happen now was Lane's awakening.

She knocked–Arceus knows why; it was _her _home after all–before pushing the bedroom door back, the hinges squeaking, her mind making a mental note to tell Eldritch about the annoying noise. Lane was tucked into his sheets, his body rising and falling lightly as he breathed. Black bangs teased his eyelids (it reminded her that she needed to cut his hair), but he didn't seem to mind considering he was still, well, sleeping.

"Lane!" she said sharply. "It's time to get up! Let's go!"

Lane didn't respond other than the gentle lifting and lowering of his chest.

She walked in further, stepping past toys thrown about his room. She peered over his body. His hands were outside the covers and stretched over his head, palms faced up with fingers slightly curled. The sleeves of his pajamas were pushed back to the elbow. Lips, dry, were partially open, showing the tips of his two front teeth.

Alyson bent down a bit and gently shook Lane by the shoulder. "C'mon, love. You've slept in long enough." She shook harder. If that didn't wake him up, nothing would.

... Nothing?

Frustration turned to nervousness turned to anxiety as she pressed two of her fingers against Lane's neck, looking for his pulse. She felt it beating, not too slow, not too fast. Normal, really – er, whatever a normal pulse was. It wasn't any different from hers anyway.

He would. He would pretend to be asleep so he wouldn't have to go to school and skip his spelling test today.

"All right, Lane," she said in a mock disapproving tone. She placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "If you're not going to wake up in time for school, then I guess you get to stick around when Aunt Beatrice visits. She'll just love pinching those cute little cheeks of yours." The mock threat went over Lane's head as he continued to sleep – or fake sleep. Whatever he was doing.

That biting anxiety continued to nibble at Alyson's insides, building its way up from her stomach to her throat. She felt his forehead – she wasn't sure why she did that. Foreheads don't tell you anything except if a person is too hot, and sure enough, he wasn't too hot. So why did she feel his forehead?

She racked her brain for answers, swallowing a lump in her throat. Coma? But ... but she saw him last night and he was just fine. Unless that thumping – did he hit his head? A concussion? No. Lane always kicks the wall when he's frustrated – being grounded is frustrating for a little kid, right? There's no reason to jump to conclusions. You're no doctor. But what else could it be if he wasn't responding?

Alyson walked around Lane's bed toward the window, fingers wrapping around the cord of the blinds. She pulled on them, letting sunlight pour into the room while keeping her eyes fixated on Lane. She saw it: twitching eyes, eyeballs rolling around in their sockets but were trapped underneath closed eyelids. It was like he was dreaming. So he was able to respond–sort of–but ... huh? What the hell was going on?

"Lane," she pleaded. She let go of the cord, letting it hit the wall. "Please wake up."

The boy simply grunted and rolled onto his side.

Lane wasn't good with playing along with jokes – at least for this long. He usually cracked after a while, the corners of his lips pulling into a smile and a quiet laugh peeping its way through. But there was no smile, no laughter. Just snores.

Alyson hurriedly ran toward the phone.

. . .

He was in the supermarket, the one at the corner, and he was going to buy some ice cream. The lady at the register pressured him–peer pressure, old lady pressure, tire pressure–to get candy too, and he did like candy. So he got it. Why? Who knows. He didn't have money.

He was lured to the back of the store by the manager, and the manager adopted a baby girl from some place called Hoenn. He watched the adoption tape (there were a lot of palm trees), and where did the ice cream go? He was holding it. The candy was melting in his pocket into goop. Green, bubbly goop. The room had brown walls and was dark. The only light was the television. It was kind of cold. Smelled of fish. The manager was talking in gibberish, some awkward, cawing language.

He was back home–no, not his home but his neighbor's. He switched homes with his neighbor, but it looked like his house except the kitchen was to his left instead of the right. He went to the backyard. Aipom heads in ice bordered the garden, and in the heads were knives sticking through the eye sockets. Bizarre, though the oran tree was still there.

A starly crashed into the glass door and caught on fire.

. . .

Ropes are heavy. Don't ever let someone tell you they're not because they are, and if they tell you ropes are light, then you tell them they're liars. Really. Straight up. Especially when they're coiled and several are stacked upon each other – the ropes, not the people. But Eldritch was a man, and no rope was taking him down today. Fight the good fight against the rope. Justice will prevail another day ... assuming rope is evil.

He dropped the rope (serves it right!) in a pile on the wooden docks before wiping his brow and turning around to stare at the ocean. It was a nice day: breezy but thick. Did that make sense? Thick wind? The oceans were calmer than usual too. Were they thick as well?

Still, despite the cool weather and thick wind, sweat trickled down his neck. It bothered him, but he tried to ignore it, climbing up the ramp leading up to the small ship he was maintaining. Its metal surface glinted in the morning sunlight. Wooden floorboards were spotless. Sails stood tall. Perfect. It was going to be a boring day; he had been assigned for local work, shipping people back and forth between the various islands that dotted Sinnoh's seas. He had preferred it for a while, though; he missed his boy quite a bit on his last trip to the Sevii Islands. He was sure his itch for adventure would come biting sooner or later.

Eldritch looked up, watching the wingull circle lazily above as they squawked. It was going to be a slow morning. Trainers–slow trainers–didn't appear until noon or so where he would ship them to Iron Island. That was the more popular destination, Iron Island, as it had tough terrain trainers liked to make their pokémon tackle. _God, hit that rock, Onix!_ or whatever. The other islands were peaceful but nothing was on them besides wildflowers and tropical trees. _God, hit that flower, Onix! _just didn't have the same ring.

"Eldritch!" A voice broke through the squawks. Eldritch snapped his head down to see a co-worker running on the docks, one of his arms waving him down frantically.

"Hey, Jason!" Eldritch hollered back heartily, grinning. Jason was such a funny character, a tall and gawky creature with arms that easily hung at the knees when he stood up straight. Okay, so he over-exaggerated – sue him. He was always oily looking, too. Eldritch never questioned why. That would be rude, and he had bigger issues to worry about, like saving the world from rope.

Jason was particularly oily today, sweat glistening off his forehead. He stumbled by tripping over his sneakers but quickly regained balance with a flail of thin limbs. He stopped and panted near the boat Eldritch was standing on.

"What's your problem?" asked Eldritch playfully, leaning on the metal railing. He rested his chin on his fists.

"Not ... my ... problem ..." Jason managed to pant out, rolling back the sleeves of his jacket. "... Yours."

"Yeah, I suppose." The young father gave one of his charming grins. Then he blinked twice. "Wait, why?"

"Your son."

. . .

Black. Maybe it was for an hour. A minute. A second.

He was on a boat with his dad wearing a cape – no, he was wearing the cape, not his dad. A huge magikarp jumped over the boat, and he shouted, and the magikarp opened his mouth, and smaller magikarp flopped onto the boat. He was up to his knees in flailing magikarp, and his dad laughed. He grabbed a magikarp by its tail and threw it at his dad's head, but he ducked.

The sky was purple, he noticed, blueish-purple, like right after the sun had set below the horizon. He reached into his pockets for his marbles but color pencils came out instead. The boat was filled with magikarp, and they flopped into the sea with a splash. It got him wet. They landed on a sandy island, boat scraping the shore, and on the island were crawdaunt that were green.

. . .

"What do you mean he won't wake up?" He opened the door of his home, making the white shutters covering the windows quiver, and stormed inside, not caring that he was trekking dirt onto the carpet his wife worked hard on to keep clean. Alyson grimaced.

"I tried everything." Alyson matched Eldritch's long strides down the hallway toward Lane's bedroom.

"Are you sure he isn't kidding? He has that spelling test today." One of Eldritch's arms accidentally knocked down a picture hanging on the wall, but the married couple stepped past it. "You know how he acts when he has a test."

"If it's a joke, he's been at it for a while." Alyson stepped forward and pushed open Lane's bedroom door where the sleeping boy resided, still cozy in his covers. Eldritch stopped, staring, before stepping inside the room. "I think something is wrong."

"Well, obviously." He cringed at his bitter tone. "Lane!"

Lane's nose twitched.

"Well, he responds to things like sleeping people can do sometimes," Alyson murmured. "His eyes twitched at sudden amounts of light hitting him, he swatted at his face when I ran a feather across it ... But he just won't wake up."

Eyes in the Inn. Why the hell are you thinking about myths now?

Eldritch looked back and forth between his sleeping son and worried wife, heart racing. He finally decided to pick up his son, blanket in tow. "Come on," he urged, walking swiftly toward the door. Alyson was on his heels. "We're taking him to the hospital."

. . .

More black? Was it for a day? A millisecond?

He was at school, and he was practicing pokémon battling with one of the school pokémon. It was a bidoof, but it kept crying out, "Budew budew budew." He was inside his classroom for some reason instead of on the field. Things kept slipping through the cracks of the doors: flowers, paper cranes, paper dolls.

"Hey, some guy left a crane in the room. Did you find it?"

Yeah. The crane was brown nor did it look like a crane but a rotten banana peel. He didn't know how to imagine a crane. He slid it back under the door.

Why did he shrink? He was the size of an ant, and he ran toward the bidoof and climbed on it and away they ran ran ran, but he never got the chance to get his trainer's card–

"Laneeeyyyy!"

. . .

Nothing was wrong with him. They ran tests for a day and a half so far and nothing had come up. Eldritch had never felt so frustrated – or tired for that matter. He ran his hands through his hair before running his fingers down his face, feeling the black stubble poke out around his chin. He rubbed his eyes.

Someone gently clasped a hand around his shoulder, making him jump. "Take a nap. Please," Alyson pleaded. "He'll be fine. I'll watch him for both of us."

"Lane would hate it here," he murmured. Hospital decor was plain: white walls, white tiles, white bedsheets. They allowed Lane to wear his pajamas, a vibrant blue against the white. The room was, dare he say, boring. Eldritch ripped his eyes away from Lane to look out the window. It was dark already, golden light from street posts pouring into the room. He saw his reflection in the clear glass. Damn, he looked worn out. He needed a shave.

"I'm not sure how to say this," he remembered the doctor telling him earlier. "We ran tests but we cannot find anything ... unusual. He really is just sleeping. We'll keep him here to monitor and to run tests, but I'm not sure what else we can do."

He's okay, right?

"In the stable sense, I suppose. There is obviously something wrong; we're just not sure what."

This can't be the first case.

"We suspect a pokémon has something to do with it. A human falling under a pokémon's hypnosis spell has happened before. Inhaling sleep-inducing spores is common, too."

What are you saying? A pokémon is the reason for this?

"It's plausible. We're asking for the opinion of people who specialize in sleep-inducing pokémon."

What can they do? They're not doctors.

"If a Pokémon is causing your son's sleeping state, then they'd know better than us."

Lane isn't a pokémon.

"I know. But, again, if a Pokémon is causing this, then they'd know–"

You're a doctor. You have to know–

"Eldritch!"

Eldritch blinked as Alyson snapped her fingers in front of his face. "What?"

"You dazed out on me. Go home."

"I'm fine," he muttered. He jumped up from the stool near his son's bed and strode across the room, collapsing into one of the stiff armchairs. He tapped his foot, staring at the heart monitor, listening to its beeps and watching the green line rise and fall. He leaned forward, digging his elbows into his thighs, resting his fallen head into his hands. "I'm fine."

"You just said that." Alyson took Eldritch's spot, sitting on the wooden stool and squirming, trying to get comfortable. She reached through the metal rails and lightly pressed her hand against Lane's tinier one. His hand was warm, and while it made her smile lightly, it brought little comfort to the beautifly in her stomach. She wrapped her hand around his fingers and squeezed gently.

"Well, I am. I'm fine."

"You're tired."

"I'm fine."

"Fine." She looked at her husband. "And he's fine, too."

"Fine."

"Go to bed."

"No."

"You're being stubborn."

Eldritch stuck out his tongue.

"And childish."

"A little. And fine my ass, Aly."

She glared.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"How come no one here knows what's wrong with him? How come no one seems to be trying anything anymore?"

"Who else is there, Eldritch?"

"I don't know. Have you called God yet?"

"Your sarcasm woos me."

"I am quite the charmer."

She ran a thumb down the smooth skin of Lane's hand, running it past his knuckles and resting it on his nails. A lock of wavy hair fell into her eyesight. "They're trying, Eldritch. Keep positive. For me. For yourself. For Lane."

"I'm trying. It's just ... is there nothing we can do?" He racked his brain for answers, trying to review today's events, fingernails scratching his scalp. "There has to be an answer somewhere."

Yes, humans have fallen asleep by cause of pokémon, Eldritch. It's quite common, really. We can either wait for the spell to wear off–this takes a couple of days–or we can try to counter the effects with different medication. This varies, depending on how your son was attacked. The most common way a human falls asleep due to a pokémon is via spores, such as sleep powder.

"Medication, Nurse Joy?" he murmured quietly. "The doctors gave Lane a shot earlier, but it had no effect."

Yes, that would be it. Next would be via audio, such as sing or grasswhistle. This one is a little bit trickier, but the effects usually wear off.

"I don't think so." His voice got louder though still inaudible to his wife's ears. "I guess it's possible, but I'm sure my wife and I would have heard something last night if that were the case. He was just down the hallway."

Well, if he is still in a sleeping state after a few days, then we'll know it's not from an audio attack. Neurological attacks, such as hypnosis, aren't as common though quite possible. Perhaps some sort of pokémon put your son under a spell.

"That sounds likely, but I'm not too convinced. Are there any pokémon in the Canalave area that use hypnosis against humans?"

Not many. But let's keep it in mind. It's a little more complicated to snap a human out of a hypnotic state, but it can be done.

"Thank you, Nurse Joy."

"Who are you talking to?" asked Alyson, staring at her husband.

Eldritch blinked a few times. "I was talking out loud? I thought that was in my head."

She sighed. "Go home. Come back in a few hours after you get some sleep."

"I'm–"

"Fine?"

"Mhm."

She stood up and reached over, cupping Lane's chin delicately in her hand. Lane was such a peaceful sleeper. She looked around – her husband was right; Lane would hate it here. It needed more ... color, more vibrancy. She needed to clean it, decorate it, make it her own.

"Why is everyone so sure it has to do with a pokémon anyway?" he asked. "Or that a pokémon can help? Lane isn't a pokémon."

"It's keeping your options open, Eldritch."

"He's not a pokémon," he repeated.

"I know. You're grumpy. You need sleep."

"No. _You_ go home and sleep."

"I did. It's your turn."

"I'm not leaving."

"It's only for a few hours. A clearer head will help you think."

"I'm thinking just fine."

His wife gave another all-knowing sigh and slowly stood up, the folds of her skirt flowing downward. White, sandaled feet crossed the cold linoleum toward him, leather bands stringed and crossed around her ankles like some sort of Greek goddess. Fair, brown hair, slightly curled, framed her face. No profound wrinkles, though worry tugged at her lips and rested in the crinkles at the edge of eyes.

Young, he thought, too young to be worried about an eight year-old child. He was, too. But with Eldritch often out at sea, dare he say his homecomings were ... well-receptive. It was almost cliché, thinking about his love life. A young woman waiting for him at home, hands clasped against her chest and hair blowing wildly in the wind as she stood on a cliff (or something – Canalave had no major cliffs) while he was off doing god-knows-what. In a romantic world, he would be fighting pirates, (but in all reality he was probably negotiating with other regions about goods), thinking about her – and no, he had no lock of her hair in a pocket watch, though he did keep her picture in his wallet that was bent and faded due to the seawater.

How could he say it politely? Lane was a ...

Well ...

When he came home and she told him she was pregnant, he was in absolute ...

Yeah.

It gave him another reason to come home in one piece. He wasn't sure if he liked that as horrible as it sounded out loud – or in his head. Tied down with wife and child ... Wasn't that the reason he became a sailor, to travel? To escape that?

He loved his wife. He always would no matter what. He knew that things were tense between them lately. Fights, arguments, disagreements ... however you want to phrase it. They were more frequent, more intense, but held behind closed doors. What did they even fight about? Things just happened too fast, he supposed.

The calmness she radiated scared him a little. She would normally be stressed out beyond belief (she was such a neurotic lady) but she was quite mellow, relaxed. It was weird. "Eldritch," she said in a quiet voice, finger wrapping around the cord of the blinds.

He looked up from the armchair. "Hmm?"

"You smell awful."

"Thanks."

She smiled. "At least shower."

"Fine."

"Good."

He got up, his rear impressed into the cushion of the armchair, and stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles in the process. Sneakers squeaking across the floor, he walked past Lane's bed, giving it a look–not a look of worry or despair, mind you, but pure curiosity–and toward the heavy door, hands grasping the cold handle and turning it where even more silence greeted him. Whispers: "There's Eldritch, Lane's father," from nurses, custodians, doctors even.

"Poor guy," he heard.

The smell of disinfectant tickled his nostrils. Hospitals were always so cold. Was the air conditioner on full blast? Was it the circumstances of the place that made it cold – and hushed for that matter? Yet at the same time it was stuffy, like the hospital was waiting on bated breath, not breathing but hoping.

Doors swished and he stood outside near a concrete fountain, observing it for some reason – or maybe he enjoyed the sound of splashing water. Canalave was a quiet town, pushed to the side and surrounded by sea, leaving little room to escape. That was the first thing he noted when he came to town: ships and sea and nothing more. It was its own world. Sure, there were visitors but rarely anyone came back. All the locals knew each other. It was a take-it-or-leave-it kind of town. It's hard to handle it if you don't like your life being pried into.

Needless to say he was surprised when he flicked his brown eyes from the fountain to the life past the railing and saw someone he remembered years ago stomp down the pavement. A trainer. Trainers come for one purpose (Iron Island to hit rocks–not flowers–with onix) and that was the end of it. They don't return, especially not him. Out of all trainers, he must have something more important to do.

The trainer was talking with some whiny girl in a mumbled tone, eyes cast toward the floor as he tugged at his scarf. The girl let out a shriek at something he said, pounded the floor with her boot, and stopped, but the boy kept walking, so she chased after him. Their stomps got louder as they approached, and they were about to pass him by when Eldritch yelled, "Hey!"

The boy stopped and looked up, unflinching in the chilly breeze. The girl, meanwhile, let out a whimper, grabbing at her upper arms and running her hands up and down the goose-bumped skin.

"Hey," he replied, staring. "Uh ... Eldritch, right?"

"It's cold!" the girl whined. She tugged at his shirt sleeve. "C'mon!"

He snapped his head toward the side and sighed. "You didn't have to come. Rowan asked me to"

"And I _AM _Rowan's closest researcher," she said in a haughty tone, arms crossed.

"That's by choice – you could _leave _Sandgem, you know." He brushed her off, ignoring her fuming, and turned around to face the sailor again. "It's nice to see you," he said politely.

"Back at ya, kid." The cold wind that whipped around his jacket awoke Eldritch from his sleep-deprived state. "How's that riolu?"

"Good. He's growing strong. He evolved, actually," he replied.

Another question: "So what brings you round these parts again?"

Gripped in between the boy's hands was a package wrapped in brown paper. He held it up. "Delivery," he murmured. "Rowan asked me to drop it off. I think they're just research packets for the library."

"I could have done it," muttered the girl, staring at the ground. "By myself, too."

He ignored this, dropping his hands to his sides, fingers still wrapped tightly around the package. "Still a delivery boy for the old man after all this time." Another soft sigh. He looked up, noticing they were standing in front of a hospital. "Hey ..." he trailed off. "What about you? Why are you here?"

His heart dropped. For a moment, Lane's state slipped from his mind. "Troubled times, kid."

This caught the girl's attention. "What's wrong, sir?"

. . .

"Did you hear me?" Giggle. "I said wake up! I said your name!" Another giggle.

Something bopped him on the forehead.

"I saw you move! I swear I did! Wake up!"

Another bop.

Lane grunted, rolling onto his belly. Wet. What the? Why wet? Oh, crud ... Did he pee the bed again? No, it was wet all over. Cold, too, and spiky, like wet grass. Fingers stretched away from each other, grasping the floor – yep, definitely wet grass.

Weird.

"See! I was right! You're moving!"

It was going through his pajamas–er, the wetness, not the voice, though he figured that could be debated–and his eyes flicked open, blurry. He was on his stomach. It smelled fresh like after a rainstorm. Another bop, this time harder and right in the back, and he yelped, pushing himself up onto his knees. He ran his fingers across the front of his jeans, wiping off blades of grass. His eyesight became clearer. There were trees. Dead, waving trees. At least that's what he thought. Maybe it was tiredness – him, not the trees. Or were the trees tired too? He could not read tree or talk tree for that matter, so he couldn't ask Tree if it was tired. He could mime tree, maybe.

Did trees have genders?

A gasp, followed by squeals of delight.

"I did it!"

Then a thought, a horrible thought.

He was going to be late for school. And he had a spelling test today!

**Last revised: April 26, 2011**


	4. Chapter Four

Please tell her to go away.

Arceus?

Dialga?

Mom?

No, really. I have dealt with crazy men, fought against some of the strongest pokémon in the region, went to places that any ordinary trainer wouldn't be able to survive in for a day, let alone weeks, and my downfall is going to be this ... thing? Some girl I swear to GOD is trying to get into my pants? Cocky? Maybe. No pun intended.

There has to be a reason why she's so nosy, why she's all up in my business. She wants to know me again. Why? The observer does not need to be the observed. There is no deep meaning to me, no inner trauma that needs to be brought up. So butt out, woman.

The faster I figure this out, the faster I can get the hell out of this place and away from her.

...

Eyes: Dark blue.  
Bipedal.  
Supple, though clumsy.

Note: Buy milk for breakfast tomorrow.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

"Good morning!" she said cheerfully.

He stared at her, unamused. She stood next to him, a cup of coffee in each hand.

"I said good morning," she repeated in a sterner tone, her eyes fixated on him.

"And I said nothing," he replied, still staring.

She broke the awkward gaze by turning her attention toward the cups of coffee warming up her hands. She set them down on the table. "I got you coffee. I thought it'd be nice to have something warm to drink."

He turned his head back toward his work, tapping his pencil on the table. "I didn't ask."

"Yeah, but it's nice, no?"

He didn't reply, flipping through the pages of a heavy book. Dawn set the cups on the table, moved the chair next to Lucas, and plopped herself in it. She scooted the chair back in, making its legs squeak across the wooden floorboards. He gave her a glare–so cold–before snapping his head back down. She gave her cup of coffee a warm smile instead and pulled it in comfortingly, wrapping her fingers around it and breathing in the steam.

His name is Lucas. Did you know that? Dawn knew. She taught him how to catch a pokémon, you know. He was such a nice boy, and he had such a nice smile. Such a helpful kid. He helped find her pokédex once. This was years ago. They were only twelve then – kids! Now they were older–fourteen, almost fifteen ... where does time go?–and he had changed into ... well, whatever that thing is.

Oh, he looked the same, sure. Blue eyes. Black hair. Weird hat. Red scarf. (She always thought it was cute that they both had red scarves.) He was kind of pale and on the gawky side since he hit a growth spurt, a good eight inches taller than her and still growing. He was so much colder, though. A hardened face, hunched shoulders, and bags under his eyes – too young to look so old. Mom said apathy was worse than ignorance. With ignorance, you just don't know. With apathy, you know ... you just don't care. That's what Lucas was, apathetic and ...

Emotionless?

Maybe. There was still a spark, a twinkle, he had back when they were rookies. Something was just ... different. Maybe she imagined that spark. It was discomforting seeing what was once an empathetic child turn into nothing more but an asexual shell. He changed. She wasn't sure if she liked it. Was that what you turned into after three years of journeying?

"How's it going?" she asked sheepishly.

"Fine," was Lucas's stiff reply as he scribbled inside his notebook. He reached for a book placed in front of him and flipped it a page forward.

She guessed he was mad at her. It wasn't her fault, honest! ... Okay, so what if she, after meeting Eldritch and learning of his predicament, offered her help? And so what if she immediately mentioned that "Lucas would like to help too!" resulting in a death glare from the boy? And does it really matter that she forced him, via Professor Rowan, to postpone his travels for another week ... or two ... or four? Surrounded by books ... this was his thing, wasn't it?

She decided to ask. She knew the answer, but she decided to ask anyway: "Are you mad?"

"I don't get mad," was his quick reply.

"Well, do you need help?"

"No," he answered. He pulled the book in closer, his left hand resting on the pages. It was like he was trying to avoid looking at her. Goddammit, she was pretty! She needed to be looked at!

Dawn let out a huff. "There must be something I can do!"

Lucas let out a sigh, stretching his arms above his head, fingers wrapped around his pencil. "You can be quiet," he said, dropping his hands back down and tapping the eraser end in a steady beat.

"I'm a researcher too!" she whined, tugging at the ends of her dark-blue hair. "I can help, you know!"

"Uh huh."

It was Dawn's turn to let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm not as annoying as you think."

"Right."

"Whatever!"

A small smirk–emotion?–that quickly vanished as Lucas scribbled in his notebook. Dawn tucked her legs underneath her rear, making sure to pull down on her skirt so Lucas wouldn't see more than he needed to (not that he cared), and raised herself up to peer over the boy's shoulder. Words. A lot of words in an illegible cursive that swirled and blurred together into fancy language. She narrowed her eyes, staring at the chicken scratch, trying to unwrap the text into something coherent.

"Does that say, 'Buy milk for breakfast tomorrow'?" she asked.

Lucas pulled his notebook away from the girl's view. "No," he muttered.

Dawn lifted her hands up and pulled out one of her barrettes, letting the loose strands brush against her cheek. "Can you at least tell me what you think is going on?" She bunched her hair together and clipped it back tighter.

"Mm ..." He licked his lips. "I don't think Nurse Joy was far off. A severe case of Hypnosis or other sleep-induced attack sound plausible. Maybe the best hope is to wait it out."

So that's why he was so enthralled with that status effects book. "So you think it has something to do with pokémon too?" she asked.

"Not unless something darker is going on in that household."

"What are you saying?" She frowned. "You think Mr. Eldritch had something to do with it? Don't say that! He's such a sweet man."

"Well, it's not that I want to say it nor do I think he would. But you never know." Lucas shrugged and turned the page, revealing a drawing of a drowzee. "Canalave–this south-western area, really–doesn't have many pokémon capable of learning sleep-inducing moves naturally. If there are any, most pokémon use it under threat."

"Are there varying levels of sleep-induced attacks? Like effectiveness?"

He paused, then nodded. "Air-borne attacks spread via spores, like Sleep Powder, are much more effective and common in the wild because of its ability to travel over greater distances. That being said, it is not necessarily strong."

"What about audio?"

"Audio isn't as powerful since other noises can drown it out. It's definitely not as effective as spores."

"So maybe it's audio. Bird pokémon have audio moves and can travel great distances even if they're not common in the area."

"It's possible"–this made Dawn smile triumphantly–"but then again, the victim usually awakens after a hour or so. I'm not ready to rule audio out, though. Same goes for air-borne spores."

Dawn nodded slightly and pulled Lucas's book towards her, staring at the drawing. "So what else is there?" she asked. "Visual?"

"Yes. This, too, can vary. Yawn, for example, is visual. The user yawns, resulting in a chain reaction that eventually lulls its opponent to sleep. Then you also have moves like Hypnosis which are powerful but inaccurate."

"So maybe Lane saw a pokémon using Yawn and the attack hit him later that night?"

"I mean – well, yeah, that could ..." Frustrated, Lucas took off his hat and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "Sleep Powder, Spore, Yawn, Hypnosis, Grasswhistle, Lovely Kiss, Sing ... All of these, to an extent, are 'curable,' but nothing has worked. So what could it be?"

. . .

Lane scrambled to his feet, toes sinking into the wet grass and, to put it simply, panicked.

"Aw, man!" Hands brushed past elf-like – er, huge ears to the top of his head. He rested them there, flattening unruly strands of hair. He paced back and forth. "Momisgoingtokillme. Iwokeuplate! Test!"

He kicked a rock with his bare foot and grabbed the band of his jeans, pulling them up so they fit snugly around his waist. "I'm already doing bad in spelling! Why do I need to learn how to spell 'rainbow'? That's such a stupid word!"

Squish floated toward him and gave him a half-smile. "What's wrong, Lane?" he asked.

"My test, Squish! My mom is going to kill me if she knows I woke up late!"

"Oh, it'll be okay!" said Squish. He nudged Lane in the head with his own squishy one and giggled.

Lane let out a sigh as his companion oozed out rainbow drops. Squish turned into a cumulus cloud, puffy and fluffy–which Lane wanted to grab and form into another shape–with two watery eyes, except his coloring was highlighter yellow, not white; and he meant the clouds, really, because eyes? They are mentioned too often and in weird descriptors, like orbs, or spheres. Wonder why? But either way, he was being honest and true, like a dart, if darts were honest and had feelings and were not just weapons to be thrown. Also, nun-chucks are weapons.

Squish squeaked and came to rest on Lane's bedhead, letting out a sigh. Moisture seeped through the creature's body and pooled into Lane's hair. He felt a drop of rainbow water run down the side of his forehead.

"What brings you to Darkwood?" asked the squishy one.

Darkwood was a place in the middle of another place. It had trees and also creatures.

"I'm not sure," admitted Lane, feeling the top of his head and pressing his fingers against Squish's form. His finger sank in, getting wet. "What about you? What are you doing here?" He pointed his head up toward the sky. It was dark blue and wavy. There was also the sun, a darker orange that Lane didn't remember.

"Princess went missing," was what he heard.

Lane blinked a few times. "Princess ..." he repeated, trailing off. "What happened to her?"

"Kidnapped, Lane!" squealed Squish fretfully and quickly, quivering on top of Lane's head. He floated away from the boy and came within his line of vision. Lane noticed the being's fluffy form turned into a droopier one, his yellow coloring turning gray. "I was running away from the explosion and came across you sleeping."

Questions, so many questions, and where to begin? You must start with the most important one. You came here unaware that life lessons would be passed unto your breast, but they came, and now you are a better person because of it. "What about my test?" Lane first asked.

"Postponed," said Squish. He motioned his entire body toward more trees, trees of no gender, that were brown and dead. "The explosion was in that direction."

"Explosion? From what?"

Squish's eyes focused on the sky. "There." He motioned his head.

Lane was confused. Was it the sky or the trees he was supposed to be mad at?

"There was a bright light that fell from the sky and BOOM!" The creature dramatically floated toward the ground like a twirling leaf in the wind, his form reverting back to its original state: a gray, shapeless blob with two, blue eyes (orbs, mayhap!). He giggled, rolling onto his back so he could look up at Lane. "Princess was there! The light hit her, and she vanished!"

Lane plopped into the grass, the wetness dampening the bottom of his pants, and picked Squish up who drooped and oozed between his fingers like silly putty. "Princess," he repeated for the second time, this time thoughtfully.

A whirring noise–the grinding of metal against metal–caught Lane's attention, making him stand up and look. Bubbles floated toward him and popped against his face, making him flinch. The land rattled, so he held Squish tighter in his hand and ran toward the source of shaking. He brushed past the genderless trees, the air cold and cutting against his face, and he smelled the sea – but too bad there was none near. Or so he thought ...

No, he was right. No ocean. There was a train though!

. . .

Dawn had a piplup: bipedal, roughly a foot high, and weighing in at eleven and a half pounds, give or take a few ounces. Its ability is Torrent, which increases the power of the pokémon's water-based moves when low on health. Its evolution is prinplup, who evolves into empoleon. The breed is terrible at walking but powerful at swimming. They often puff out their chests as they are a prideful species.

Dawn's piplup was puffing out his chest. Also, he was annoying.

"Move your damn bird," Lucas growled, pushing the piplup away with his left hand. The piplup, with an unhappy chirp, deflated and flapped his wings to gain stability only to fall backward. He hopped back onto his wobbly, yellow flippers and poked at the books sprawled out in front of the researcher. Lucas looked up from his notebook to stare at the bird, and the bird smirked back–as good as you could smirk with a beak anyway–filling his chest with air and puffing out again.

"Oh, he's just interested in what you're doing. Pip is such a curious, little guy." Dawn grabbed for the chick and hugged him to her chest, and the piplup cooed, nuzzling against her breast. The bird turned his eyes toward Lucas, and – Arceus, he better have imagined that. Did that bird just glare at him evilly as he pressed the side of his face against Dawn's bosoms?

"Be nice to him," she remarked. "He'll warm up to you once you get to know him better."

Warm up, huh?

"I don't even see why you need to have him out," Lucas said, eyes returning to the safety of his notebook. "And why hasn't that thing evolved yet? You've had him for years."

"You know as well as I do that some pokémon don't want to evolve," Dawn replied. "Why? I don't know. You tell me. Maybe you can figure it out. Either way, Pip doesn't want to evolve, and I don't mind." She smiled and patted her pokémon's head affectionately.

Lucas watched the bird once more, this time out of sheer observation than annoyance. Pip wiggled out of the arms of Dawn and toddled around on the barely-clothed thighs of his trainer, the tip of his slipper slightly underneath the pink cloth of Dawn's skirt. How sweet. How angelic. How innocent the movement of lifting his flipper, shifting Dawn's skirt. How convenient that the piplup's head was pointed down at that moment. It became apparently clear why the piplup refused to evolve. It was cute to be a pervert when you were under a foot tall. Once you become fat, and chubby, and older, and pimply (or prinpuply, if you want to make it a lame pokémon pun), the police are called.

Good god this girl is stupid. What Lucas–and any other normal human being with the semblance of a brain–saw as perverted action, she saw as cute, sweet, ooey-gooey, kissy motion.

He was tempted to tell her, but he had doubts that she would believe him.

With a sigh, Lucas reached up and took off his hat, letting the ceiling fans dry off the sweat built up on his forehead. He looked toward the window and watched a flock of wingull fly by in a crooked v-formation. "Enough distractions," he murmured, staring down at his markings and putting his hat down next to it. "Do something. Particularly something that does not involve me."

Dawn picked Pip up and pressed him against her stomach as she stood up, boots scuffing the wooden floorboards. Shelves and shelves of books, she thought, and all of them boring as heck. Her eyebrows furrowed together. She used her free arm to run a gloved hand down the dusty tomes. No gossip magazines? No histories of trainers? Just boring data collected over the years and shuffled into leather hardbounds? Must Lucas pick the most boring floor to reside on?

Ah, a good book finally. _Pokémon Myths and Legends_. The title was simple, yet it effectively caught Dawn's attention. She pulled it out, sending up dust that made her nose twitch and Pip sneeze and jump out of her hold to waddle on the floor. The book was out of place unless they were in some bizarre library universe where the alphabet went A, B, L, C, D. Wait! It made sense now! This is why Lucas wanted to study on this floor! He wanted his name to be in front of the alphabet! The fiend! The devil!

Wait. Aren't books organized by last name? What _was_ Lucas's last name? And hell, what powers could you possess by messing with the alphabet? If you acquired a power that everything you touched turned into chocolate simply by messing with the alphabet, Dawn would do it. She totally would.

"Lucas, what's your last name?" she asked, laying the book flat on the palm of her left hand and flipping the cover open with her right. She leaned on her left leg, popping her hip.

"How 'bout no?" he muttered, turning a page.

"That makes no sense."

Lucas didn't reply, making Dawn sigh for about the hundredth time today. The boy was a frustrating creature, yet he really didn't do anything to bother Dawn in the first place. Maybe that was the problem. All he did was sit and read and write. He didn't like to joke around, let alone talk.

Now let's be honest here. Like dart honest. As much as Dawn wanted to help the Eldritch family solve their problems, there wasn't much that she could do other than regurgitate the same information those in the medical field already knew. The chances of her solving this mystery were slim to none. Her credentials? She barely had any. Oh, right. She was Rowan's apprentice for the last three years. Had she learned anything? Outside the useful tip here and there and a memory or two that she will tell her future kids (two boys, one girl, two years apart in age with the girl being the youngest. Also, she wanted to live in Hearthrome, and her husband would be a successful researcher or businessman or whatever who also fought the evil rope villain on the side. Oh, and he would cry at the end of romantic comedies and not be afraid of emotion), her apprenticeship was, dare she say, pointless – at least until she could use it on some résumé for an equally crappy job. But that's beside the point.

All things have a second motive. The surface motive was helping Lane. The real motive was to get her friend back. She knew Lucas was a well-respected trainer and researcher despite his age. She knew doctors and Nurse Joy and all the experts in Canalave would ask his opinion had they known he was in the area. He wouldn't do it of course–at least by free will–so that's where Professor Rowan came into play. Professor Rowan would make Lucas stay, and here they sat.

Dawn was a friendly, lovely child. Dawn knew it, too. While she had her moments of ... denseness, she knew when she wasn't wanted, and it never really mattered; there were plenty of others who liked being around her. Lucas didn't want her around. But for some reason, she didn't want to give up. She wanted to get to know him – then immediately change him into something that would fit him better. It must be a girl thing.

She slammed the heavy book on the table and pulled the chair back, sitting in it. She cleared her throat, flipped her hair behind her shoulders, tapped her fingers on the tabletop, and grinned at the annoyed researcher next to her. Lucas quickly lowered his head back to his notebook.

Dawn was a stupid, noisy child. Lucas knew it, too. She was always dense–the stupid way she bit her lip as she read the table of contents, like a book without pictures on every page boggled her mind–and he didn't understand how anyone could stand to be around her. He didn't want her around. But for some reason, she didn't want to give up. He knew she wanted to get to know him. Why? He had no idea. It must be a girl thing.

"What happened to your friend?" she asked, sliding a finger underneath the thin leaf of the book and flipping it to the next page.

Friend?

"What friend?" he questioned back.

"You know!" Dawn tore her eyes away from her book and made motions with her hands. She petted something imaginary above her head and extended this motion toward the sides near her ears. "This guy!"

This must mean something meaningful. Something like the imaginary airspace is metaphorical for the huge amount of crazy the girl had stored in her head, and she was trying to pat it down, only for the crazy to explode forth like a volcano, spewing forth its hot, molten, crazy hate of craziness.

"I'm not following."

"You know!" she repeated with more enthusiasm. She simulated jogging in place while remaining firm in her seat. She puffed out her cheeks.

That answers it. She, indeed, was a mad, volcano-like woman on the verge.

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Use words."

"Oh, I don't know his name. That blond kid you hung out with. He ran off after we let him keep that chimchar. You two screamed like sissies when a flock of starly attacked you. Remember?"

"Oh, Barry?" He smiled, and he noticed it caught Dawn off-guard. "And starly can be fierce in flocks, you know."

"Uh huh. But either way, what happened to him?"

Lucas shrugged. "I don't know. I lost track of him after ..." He trailed off. Repress it, Lucas. It's over.

Dawn gazed at him worriedly and nudged him in the shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Lucas blinked a few times, nodded, and recapped his sweaty hair. "We just ... drifted apart I guess. Last I heard he was going to the Battle Frontier. I was going to head there, too."

"But?"

"But I was roped into staying here for a week or so for a whimsical research project," he muttered.

"Oh." Dawn beamed as Pip hopped onto her lap. "Rope is evil."

"Quite."

. . .

He had no idea what happened, why he was doing it, and where he was heading, but Lane knew he had to get on that train. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to make it but whatever.

"That train always leaves earlier than its departure time," remarked Squish in a shaky voice, quivering in Lane's sweaty hands.

The genderless trees swung at him (or maybe he imagined that), and he dodged the fiends like any good hero would, ducking and weaving while Squish screamed. The train was pulling out of the station, he noticed, and was picking up speed, bubbles flying out of the train's stack.

"Wait!" Lane yelled, pushing his legs to run faster. He held his left arm up and tried to wave it down.

The train was made out of steel, wheels grinding against the tracks with a rhythmic thunk, THUNK! He ran closer to it–which in all reality probably wasn't the safest thing but whatever to that too–with his left hand still thrust forward, fingers wiggling and grasping at the cold air. Passenger car after passenger car painted in an array of blue shades rushed him by, and all seemed hopeless until something grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him up so his feet were no longer on the ground but swinging forward in a wild flailing of limbs. The being dragged him into the train, and Lane rolled in, resting on the flat of his belly. Squish was flung out of Lane's grasp and groaned tiredly a few feet away.

Lane had been on a train once. He was about six, and he was with Mom to visit Dad who was stationed in another city further away. He remembered the train with its loud honking and its brakes screeching, and he got out of his mom's grip and ran toward the edge of the platform and peered forward when it was pulling into the station. He slipped. He fell forward. He remembered the bright light from the train turning into a streamed blur and hands gripping and pulling him back by the shoulders, and the honking noise was multiplied by five. He remembered Mom freaking out. She was crying for some reason and sat him in her lap when they got on the train, and she constantly kissed him through his hair. It bothered him. He was old enough to sit on his own! He also remembered candy–lots of it!–and the landscape rushing by the window.

"Never again," she kept breathing into his hair. "Never again."

He didn't know why he remembered that, or why he was remembering that particular moment in this peculiar situation. Either way, he did.

"Th ... thanks ..." Lane managed to breathe out.

There was a giggle followed by a response. "You're welcome, Laney!"

Something collapsed on top of him. He didn't move, partially bewildered and partially exhausted from running and almost killing himself like any good hero, and let whatever on top of him rest there, pressing its face against the nape of his neck. Something stringy but soft draped around his head. Was it hair?

"Want to wrestle?" The voice giggled again. It pulled at his elf-like – er, pointy ears, making him flinch.

He shook his head no, managing to shake off the being's grasp.

Wait. Laney? Oh, sweet mesprit, no ...

Lane managed to squirm enough to roll onto his back and thus stared into the wild face of Julie.

**Last Revised: April 27, 2011**


	5. Chapter Five

I guess she's amusing in a train wreck sort of way. You probably shouldn't stare but you end up staring anyway just to see if more chaos ensues. She captures my attention so quickly, and I feel so stupid, so weak, for giving in like some trained puppy. She is pointless distraction. I don't like it. It scares me – no. I don't get scared. I don't get angry, or upset, or ... anything. That is pointless, too.

She's still at it. She's still trying to understand me. I don't like when people try to justify things, research it more than needed, and make ludicrous hypotheses. Things happen. That's it. You'll never understand the situation more than skin deep. Nothing good comes from prying into territory where you are obviously not wanted. Its anti-researcher, I know. You don't have to tell me. You don't have to go, "You're not doing your job."

If she wants to get hurt, fine. I'm not apologizing for it.

...

Details:  
- hat: white  
- hair clips: gold/yellow  
- scarf: red  
- skirt: pink, slightly ruffled  
- shirt: black and sleeveless

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

_Betray not your anger, lest ? will come.  
Weep not with sorrow, or ? will draw near.  
When joy and enjoyment come natural as the air, that is happiness.  
Let such be blessed by the hand of Master ?._

She commented, "Pretty," before turning toward her notebook and writing down – why was he paying attention to her? "What do you think, Lucas?" she asked thoughtfully. She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek and smiled. "It's about mesprit."

"I think you're wasting time reading that useless crap," he muttered, casting his eyes down to stare at his notebook. He made motions with his left hand and watched his shadows dance on the lined paper.

Dawn ignored the comment. "It's part of the trio – the lake guardians. It sleeps at Lake Verity. I saw its shadow once."

Lucas didn't reply.

"It's known as the 'being of emotion."

"Uh huh."

Dawn smiled. Pip jumped onto the table and knocked her pencil out of her hand to nuzzle her palm. She petted him, ruffling the feathers on his head.

Lucas shifted his eyes to the side, taking a peek at the girl's notebook. She wrote down terminology, the estimated height and weight of mesprit, and its physical details next to a picture of a gray blob with two dots for eyes and a u-shaped smile. It had a long, skinny tail. Happy sperm? he thought amusedly. He looked toward his notebook. He doodled a hypno, somewhat realistic, somewhat cartoonish. It was hypnotizing itself and was stumbling around.

"If I weren't so adamant about you following in my footsteps, boy, I would say you would have done well as a cartoonist," he remembered Rowan telling him. "Honestly, though, Lucas. You need to get serious; doodles do not belong in a report."

Why was he clenching his pencil, his teeth? Why did his nose scrunch slightly? Why did that make him so upset all of a sudden? "I ... We should call it a day," Lucas murmured, slamming shut the status book in front of him, making Dawn and Pip flinch in surprise. He placed it on top of the huge pile of books he collected and pushed the stack toward the edge of the table. "I think we should wait until tomorrow and ask Lane's parents about the day before he went into his ... dormancy state."

"You mean sleeping?"

"We're not sure if it's sleeping per say."

"But it's just ... sleeping, isn't it?"

Take your notebook and go home, he thought. And he did. He grabbed his notebook with his left hand, stood up, and swung his backpack over his right shoulder. Dawn still had that myths book open, fingers lightly resting on its thin pages with Pip on the opposite side of the book, peering down at it, head cocked to the side. "Meet me at the hospital tomorrow if you want to continue this little 'research project' of yours. I'm going home."

He heard Dawn make noises projected from the back of her throat as she quickly swiped the myths book with one hand and Pip in the other. That didn't stop him from walking toward the staircase. It had been a long day of doodling, and reading information that he could easily look up in his own data collection, and sitting, and writing things that had nothing to do with why he was here, and much, much more (including shipping & handling). Oh, and eating smashed crackers that he had found at the bottom of his backpack. Can't forget that.

He heard his stomach grumble. He should probably get something to eat before heading–

"Hey! You wanna go out to dinner?"

She asked it so coyly, so sweetly, so _quietly _that it startled Lucas into stopping just to make sure he heard right. It was uncharacteristic of her, being quiet. He turned his head slightly, eyes on the peripherals so he could look at her. He watched as she returned her piplup to his ball and grabbed her bag by the handles. That myths book was still pressed against her chest. Was she blushing or was that a trick of the library lights?

"Dinner?"

She stepped forward–dainty steps like she walked on the balls of her feet–and nodded. "Yeah, you know, the meal that we eat when it is around this time of day?" She gestured toward the window with a nudge of her head. It wasn't too dark but it wasn't light either, a mix of pinks and purples – a nighttime canvas only seen in cliché cowboy movies.

"My treat," she added. "We haven't eaten since breakfast or lunch or whatever we had this morning, and, well, I'd like to catch up. You've gotten so busy since you won the league. I mean, you have all these events you have to attend, and the paperwork, and Rowan has been pushing us to finish our theses ... well, I barely get to see you. I don't know. I ..."

He didn't know why she trailed off like that and turned her head when he gave her his full attention. "I'd just like to be friends again," Dawn continued, staring at the floorboards. "I'm not sure if we were friends to begin with, but I'd like to change that. What do you say?"

He was about to say no, tell her that he had things to do, people to see, paperwork to fill out, any excuse he could muster, and they could go out tomorrow–_maybe_, if she was lucky–but her eyes suddenly snapped up toward his and quickly swept back and forth, reading his face. And like that, a light hope disappeared into heavy disappointment.

Oh, hell. He was going to regret this. "Sure, Dawn."

"Great!" Dawn grabbed at his wrist and pulled him toward the staircase excitedly. "There's this cute little seaside café nearby that I just love, and I think you'll like it too! We can talk about what you've been up to – oh! I have so much to tell you about what's been going on in Rowan's lab! And ..."

Yep, he thought, as Dawn made him half walk, half run down the stairs in an awkward galloping motion while she chattered away. He was definitely going to regret it.

. . .

Lane heard gasps, sharp and short. Julie had him pinned down by the arms, and the ends of her pigtails, draped into his face. He sputtered, he coughed, he gagged, he huffed, but the hair fell all over his nose and mouth. So he let the strands lay there, trying not to move his face so it wouldn't tickle him further.

One of his arms was released in order for Julie to point ahead. "Who's that?" she asked. "He's a cutie."

Lane figured she was talking about Squish despite not being to see him, so he stated the castform's name. "I like him," was what he heard. The weight was lifted off him, and she crawled over him toward Squish. There was a weird squelching noise, followed by Squish's squeals. Lane remained flat on his back, still catching his breath.

"I'm Julie!"

"I'm Squish!" replied Squish happily.

Julie walked over toward Lane with Squish–who was a shade of coral red though retained his regular castform shape–floating above her left shoulder. "Come on, Lane!" she said. "You need to help us with this game to keep the train going!"

He walked toward Julie. He stood in front of a square machine with glass windows. One, two, three, four ... multiply by five. There were twenty-five of them, he counted, and each window had a picture of a different water pokémon.

"The train is running on water, see?"

He looked down. Below his feet was the ocean, flat as glass, and they were rushing past it – or were they in it? Is that what she meant by "running on water?" Or did the train use water as energy?

Squish hopped from Julie's shoulder to his and bopped a glass window adorned with a picture of a wingull. The window lit up and went through several colors that traveled to the other windows. They all settled on a shade of gold. Lane followed suit, pressing another wingull window, and it squealed like a bidoof, leaked green ooze onto his fingers, and flickered through different hues of purple.

"Yeah, ooze comes out if you press the wrong one. It's the pollution of the train," answered Julie as Lane gagged and wiped the liquid onto his jeans, leaving a green streak across his thigh.

"What are we supposed to do then?"

Julie giggled. "It's simple." She stepped forward and, with her index finger stretched out, connected a picture of a piplup to a magikarp. A trail of white dots followed, encasing each window in the same light, and they remained that way amongst the flickering purple tiles. "Get it?"

He did. Using his index and middle finger, his thumb tucked underneath his other fingers, Lane dragged his hand across the glass windows, lighting up a picture of a luvdisc, quagsire, and psyduck. Alarms rang and a beacon on the top of the machine flashed red.

DING DING DING! Free wailmer bonus!

. . .

Cynthia once told him that he was a cute but socially awkward creature who needed to work on his conversation skills. It was mostly because the poor kid could barely keep a conversation going past five lines with anyone, let alone strangers, but it, somehow, also maintained the "down-to-earth" persona the Sinnoh League wanted their champions to perceive. By constantly re-telling your story, you remain humble ... in theory, anyway.

"I want you to remember your roots, the journey you took, the difficulties you went through," she told him. "This is what will make other trainers relate to you while also keeping your feet firm on the ground. It is difficult to relate to a champion who thinks too highly of himself, who thinks he is better than everyone around him." That always confused him. Surely if he won the pokémon league, that would make him better than everyone around him, wouldn't it? Trainer-wise, at least.

"Kids are going to look up to you whether you like it or not," she continued, "and knowing your history ..." She hesitated when he glared at her. "My point, Lucas, is from here on out, you're not some regular kid. I'm not saying you have to change yourself entirely – that's the last thing I want. Just ... be careful. You're a role model now."

He didn't know. There was something really odd about an eight year-old running up to him to ask for his autograph. His reign as Sinnoh's latest champion was coming up on its six month birthday–or anniversary, or whatever–and by now he figured he would be used to the publicity, but he wasn't. He still had that stantler-caught-in-the-headlights look. Were they talking to him when asking about his life as a trainer? Did they want him to take the picture or be in the picture? It was like winning the lottery and not knowing what to do. It was that moment you realized you were wandering around town naked. Something like that.

"What a sweetie," said Dawn with a smile, dipping a fry into her ketchup before biting the tip with her front teeth. She chewed it thoughtfully. "It must be strange getting asked for autographs, huh?"

Yes.

"No," he lied.

"That's great. I'm glad you're getting used to it." She giggled, the edges of her eyes creasing as her smile widened.

"I guess." He stared at his half-eaten burger.

Luckily–or unluckily, depending on how pessimistic Lucas felt like being–Dawn took control of the conversation and barely waited for his "yes," "no," or "I guess" responses. She somehow managed to weave a story out of those four simple words. Somehow those words triggered a memory, made her ask a question, made her respond. Why couldn't he do that?

"So really," Dawn rested her chin on the ball of her fist and leaned forward, "what is it like to be champion?"

Great. He couldn't respond with his three answers. "It's ..." He paused, thinking. What was it like to be champion? It was kind of like that one feeling you get when people hype up a movie, and you watch it, but it turns out to be not so great. Everything is amazing at first–you get invited to all the parties and sometimes get free stuff–but everyone tries to get all up in your business. It was like barely coming to grips about wandering around town naked before being asked _why_you were wandering around town naked.

She looked at him funny after a few seconds of awkward silence.

"It's okay," he finally muttered.

"Oh." She simply nodded and stirred a fry in her ketchup. "Personally, I'd love the attention."

Of course.

"I'd use it to bring attention to issues I'm concerned about."

Uh huh. He had many conversations like this. The "what if?" scenario that previous champions warned him about. It reminded Lucas of the questionnaire portion of beauty contests. What cause are you behind? What is your biggest regret? What is your greatest desire? What would you do if you were the winner of the pokémon league? They were nothing more than questions with fake answers that sounded good out loud but were unattainable in real life.

It made him think. A fourteen year-old should never be handed that much power. Once you have it, you don't know what to do with it or you end up wanting more of it. And once you get more power, then what? He hadn't really done anything with his supposed power. He was kind of apathetic toward it; the fame wasn't what he wanted. He wasn't eccentric like the others, didn't use his power to fulfill outside goals. He knew it should be something he should take advantage of–good things don't last forever–but there was this voice, a voice telling him that he got this far without this power and he damn sure didn't need it.

"I suppose it's scary to be given all that power." It was like she was reading his mind. "I ..." Dawn trailed off but stared Lucas directly in the face. "I have to ask, Lucas. What was it like to ... to–"

"Out with it," he muttered. He knew where this was going.

The sudden interruption startled her. "He was ... power-hungry, wasn't he?"

"He" was Cyrus. Lucas met him when he was eleven. He didn't know it was Cyrus at the time, just some odd man in a trench coat. Team Galactic's presence had increasingly become more apparent after this. Maybe he started to pay attention to them after the fated meeting – who knows? It was never Lucas looking for trouble; he simply ran into it. Regardless, he became "that child," that child with a vendetta against Team Galactic, according to Cyrus, the media, his mentors ... everyone, really. But he never had one, a vendetta. He didn't even know what the word meant at the time. He was just confused. He had no idea what was going on, but everyone assumed he did and attacked or praised him for it. Where was everyone else? Why didn't anyone help him? He was a kid, a stupid kid. Why did they put the weight of the world on his shoulders?

Dawn watched Lucas struggle with his thoughts, his eyes darting. His shoulders tensed, his forehead crinkled, his fingers fidgeted along the line of his cap. She sort of regretted asking but she had to know.

Straight off the bat, Dawn knew she wanted to focus her research on the relationship between trainer and pokémon. Rowan's focus was on pokémon evolution, so she took it a step further and based her research around the effect human interaction had on pokémon evolution. Would domesticating pokémon make them weaker than their wild counterparts or did this make them stronger? More importantly, how does human interaction trigger maturation to the point of transformation? Maybe it was just an excuse to people watch. It sounded smart though, didn't it? Dawn had to split her focus between pokémon and humans. You learn things from other humans.

Cyrus had a tough childhood, she read. Extremely brilliant as a child but his work was often ignored or criticized. No love, she figured, and no friends. Then he went ... "crazy," but he made it seem so normal. He was cool, so calculating, that people actually _believed _in his ideals of a new world. She never understood that. It sounded too complex trying to start from scratch rather than improving on what was already given to you, but to each his own.

She made theories. He wanted to create a new world to frame his attitude toward life. He had good intentions, she supposed. No more fighting, no more strife, but no love, no compassion, no joy. It saddened her that a human could be so empty–could feel so alone–that he thought all emotion was futile and that the world would be better without any feeling whatsoever.

When you're a researcher, you start to see red flags. Most flags have to do with pokémon. Foaming at the mouth and a suddenly vicious nature may indicate an onset of rabies. When plant pokémon start to sprout flowers, it usually means that they are preparing for their next stage in evolution. Things like that. But Dawn was also a people researcher given her specialty, and it was hard to miss the connection.

"He was," he finally answered. "He had big goals. Bigger goals than most people could even dream of let alone go through with."

"He was close," she said quietly.

She watched him bite through his burger quite aggressively, ripping at the bun with his teeth. She watched his Adam's Apple move as he swallowed his food. He ran his tongue over teeth. "I wouldn't say power-hungry. He knew he needed a lot of power to go through with his plans. I don't think he cared if he was powerful in this world. Only if he was powerful in–"

"In his world," Dawn finished.

"Yeah."

Dawn could feel her next question burning on her lips. "What was he like?"

Lucas repeated the information Dawn already knew. He hated any type of emotion, positive or negative (ignoring the irony in hating emotion), and he was calculating but calm. A man with good intentions (they both supposed) but overzealous in his execution. Misunderstood as a child. Unappreciated as a child. Antisocial. A genius.

"I can't help but wonder," Dawn began, fiddling with her split ends, "that if he got the attention he wanted as a child, would he have turned out the way he was? If someone, somewhere, gave him the credit, the attention he craved, would he have become what he is? Wherever he is?"

Lucas stared at her, the sound of kricketot chirping in the background.

"I heard he had no friends. I heard he had no one to talk to."

Where was she heading with this?

"He didn't want to befriend his pokémon either. They were just sources of power. He wanted that power."

Why was she babbling on about this?

"And because he didn't know what friendship felt like, because he didn't know what it felt like to have someone truly interested in you, he figured starting over would be better than working on what he already had." Dawn started to feel sick to her stomach and pushed her plate of food away toward Lucas. "Right?"

Why was she getting so riled up from this? He noticed the pitch in her voice was getting higher and higher, and she seemed breathless. "I ... You would know more about that than me, Dawn," Lucas answered, a bit bewildered though he hid it well. His hunger pains disappeared quickly too. "That's not my specialty, like you. Pokémon and human interaction, I mean. I don't need to understand humans. You know my emphasis is on battle–"

"_Right?_" she stressed the word again.

"... Right," he replied, not so much in agreement than to appease her.

"If someone is so misunderstood, so friendless, so ignored, despite being so brilliant, wouldn't it seem like these sorts of actions would be repeated? Maybe not to Cyrus's extent but wouldn't they seem mentally unbalanced?"

"I don't know. Each situation is different. Every person is–"

"You know as well as I do that when you recognize certain patterns in pokémon, certain outcomes are sure to follow," she interrupted again. "Nature proves this time and time again. What makes this any different with humans, Lucas?" Dawn wasn't sure when her hands flew up from her thighs to grip the edge of the table so roughly that it shook in her palms.

He was at a loss for words. "Where the hell are you going with this, Dawn?" The tension, the concern that rested in the creases of her forehead, jumped into the pit of Lucas's stomach and kicked him repeatedly. He hated that feeling. He did his best to remain calm. There was no point in agitating her further.

Dawn paused, unsure how to say it. She observed him, trying to separate her emotion from her subject – and failing at it. "I'm worried."

Lucas didn't respond, unsure if she was going to finish her statement. "... About?" he finally asked.

She bit her lip before replying: "About ... you."

And like that, it all became so clear. The reason why she brought Cyrus up was because–

"I don't miss red flags, Lucas."

–she thought he was turning into him. He was Cyrus, at least in her eyes.

Lucas had never felt so pissed. "You are so ..." Again, he was at a loss for words. He stood up quickly and grabbed his backpack from the side of the table, swinging it over his shoulder. Dawn remained sitting though she looked up toward him. He felt his face flush with anger. "I have never been so – I don't even know what to say to you." Customers sitting at other tables turned toward their direction.

"Don't leave," she begged. She stood up and reached over, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Lucas, I just–"

He brushed her hand away. "Just what? You think I'm a miniature version of him?"

Their scarves blew in the bitter wind. Dawn shivered but didn't reply. Lucas scoffed.

"That's what I thought." He pushed the strap of his backpack further up his shoulder before lacing his fingers behind his head. He watched her open her mouth in response, but she stopped midway to lick her lips. "Wait. Let me try to figure this out. Your question is if a child–someone around our age, I assume–is raised in a neglectful environment, that may lead to a lonesome, depressing, or emotionless adulthood?"

"I ... guess."

"Your background research involved delving into Cyrus's life story. You found that his personality and background matches mine. Is that right? We're both scarred in some form because of lack of adult presence, him with his school career, and me with the whole Team Galactic scandal. We were left to fend for ourselves because the supposed adults around us were just too _stupid_ to help us. We don't like talking to anyone because of that. We don't trust anyone, not even our companions. Is that what you figured out?"

Dawn turned her attention toward the murmuring patrons around her before ogling him. "Kind of."

"And your hypothesis?"

"Don't patronize me, Lucas."

"Answer me," he demanded.

His tone startled her. "I think you might go down a similar path like he did."

Lucas, unlike Dawn, didn't seem aware of the growing interest in their conversation from bystanders. "And let me guess. Your experiment–and correct me if I'm wrong–is if there is human interference ... that's your researcher's emphasis right? Human interference with pokémon? You want to see if messing with me, getting into my business, will change me. By becoming my '_friend_,'" he made sure to put emphasize this word, "you think you'll be able to alter my 'natural' course. Am I hitting the nail on the head?"

No response.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Right. Good luck with that. I'm out."

Dawn hesitated, legs planted to the ground, as Lucas turned around toward the exit, a heavy pound with each step. "Lucas!" she managed to call out after being baffled for a few seconds. "Come on!" She started to follow him.

Lucas quickly spun around. "Don't," he said. The tension in his voice somehow made her stop. He turned back around to walk. He was so angry with himself. He gave her a chance – he actually allowed someone to come into his life, and he almost fell for it. He almost let a tiny piece of him go to that ... to that–

A bump to the shoulder threw him off balance slightly and made him stop in his tracks. He looked up. A man, thick but short, was standing in his way, blocking the only exit – a small gap in the metal railings that surrounded the outdoor café. It was Eldritch.

"Hey, kid." The sailor's voice was gruff. "What's the rush?"

It had now been three days since Lane had entered his "slumber state." Eldritch was tired as ffffffft (let's assume that's a word), and, well, thought? He could still think? He was running on ten hours of sleep. Things were starting to get ... hazy. He didn't feel tired. He knew he was tired, but he felt like he was on a high. You know, that feeling you get at the peak of a sugar rush. That feeling you get when you're running on ten hours of sleep for the last three days. And yes, he was aware that he used his situation as an analogy to explain his situation, and if he had gotten more sleep–let's say, fifteen hours because that's a nice wholesome number right there, fifteen–he probably could have been more creative. But he didn't. So there.

"Nothing," he heard Lucas mutter, his eyes returning back toward the concrete floor.

Eldritch looked down the direction Lucas had come and saw that girl–Dawn, Sunny, something that had to do with the sun–at one of the metal tables that sporadically decorated the café's garden. She looked worried but mystified at the same time. Oh, women. His wife had bothered him to go eat. Go, sleep, Eldritch. Go eat, Eldritch. Remember to breathe, Eldritch. Always nag, nag, nag about remembering to live.

"Girl problems?" he asked.

"You could say that." Lucas shook his head and walked past Eldritch. "I'm sorry. I'm going."

It took him a while to contemplate those two words. He blinked, finally understanding. "Now wait. Going?" Eldritch quickly spun around (mentally, he went "whee!" as he felt his brain jolt about in his skull) and grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back and stopping him. "Going home for the night?"

"No, going for good. I'm sorry, sir, but I can't stay. Honestly, I'm not finding anything new other than what you guys already know, but if it'll help ..." Lucas swung his backpack around and dug through it, pulling out a red notebook. He proceeded to open it and looked it over a few times before ripping out a few pages and handing it to Eldritch.

"Well, it's your call, kid." Eldritch took the papers and folded them up. "I can't stop you. At the same time, I can't say I'm not a little deflated."

Lucas zipped up his backpack. "Yeah ... Good night, sir." He brushed past Eldritch.

"Erm ... Good night."

Think of something. Stop? No, too dramatic. Come back? Too desperate. Eldritch wasn't a desperate man. Think faster. Quicker, now, quicker.

"Hey!" he finally shouted, waving the papers in the air. Work, dammit.

It did. Lucas turned around, his scarf flapping in the wind.

Eldritch started to walk toward him. "I need to tell you something." He felt like a feather when he walked now. Did you know that? Probably not.

Lucas didn't reply but listened.

"I know this much, Lucas," Eldritch began, shoving his hands within the depths of his pants' pockets. He looked up, gazing at the winking stars. "I know I shouldn't even be thinking this – I haven't gotten much sleep, you see but even I know my theory is ludicrous. But I really do think something in that inn did something to my kid. He was playing near the area a few hours before he was hit with that sleeping spell, or whatever the heck the doctors are calling it. He was with his friends, but he was the only kid to look in. So says my wife anyway."

He waited to see if Lucas was going to say something, but he didn't, so Eldritch continued. "There's this myth"–he noticed Lucas rolled his eyes–"that Canalave locals like to tell about that inn. It's haunted, they say. Pokémon, demon, who knows. All you can really see is its eyes."

"Eyes," Lucas repeated questionably, disbelievingly.

"Los ojos," Eldritch said, pointing to his. He had no idea where the Spanish came from. "Canalave is a strange town, Lucas. That's the first thing you gotta know about this town. You hear stories about people going missing, people going under deep spells like this, but you never really think that they're true. They're just myths, something to pass the time."

Lucas nodded.

"And again it might be because I'm delirious, but I kind of believe this one. Within Harbor Inn is something evil and hates being bothered. I don't understand it. What kind of creature is so mean-spirited that it would hurt a child who bore no ill-feeling toward it? I digress. I suppose that doesn't matter. What matters is figuring out what's wrong with Lane.

"I trust you, you know. Not because you're some hotshot trainer, or because you're a prodigy, or because you're a brilliant researcher following in Rowan's footsteps"–there was another eye roll from the kid–"but because I know how you are deep down. I could see how dedicated you were three years ago when I first met you. You were determined. A little confused about what you wanted to do, sure, but determined. And I suppose being smart helped, too. You didn't like giving up."

Eldritch grinned, pulling a hand out to run it along his unshaven jawline. "But I know you don't trust anyone anymore. Bad things happened to you and people expected you to recover quickly. They tell you to repress it, don't they, because showing pain isn't an inspiring quality. You started to look at the world differently because of what happened to you. I see you lost hope in most things." He paused thoughtfully, staring Lucas straight in the eye. "But don't lose hope in solving this. For me. For my boy."

. . .

They got off the train, Lane, Julie, and Squish, in front of a cottage. They were only meant to stay for a few minutes, but they got distracted by a video playing the background noises of a sci-fi show. The television was mounted in the wall of the cottage. Lane could reach into it and feel around, grabbing at sound effects. He managed to catch a "whizz!" noise and brought it out, careful not to crush it in his palm. He released it, and the whizz swirled above their heads. It sounded like a high-pitch whistle.

Crap! That was the train leaving!

"Hurry up, Lane!" shouted Julie, chasing it down with Squish perched on her head. "It's gaining speed!"

Lane had taken his socks off earlier because they got wet from playing the train's game, and he was trying to force them on his feet, though the wetness made it all the more difficult. He tripped, falling flat onto his belly, one sock gripped in his hand and the other stuck around his toes. Julie stopped, turned around, and ran back to help him. The train left.

Of course that would happen. Socks are the leading cause of people being late for trains.

**Last Revised: April 27, 2011**


	6. Chapter Six

I hate her. I'm not even sure how I can properly express how angry she makes me other than repeating those three words. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

Someone told me that if I can't express myself out loud, I should try writing it down. It's why this stupid research journal is filled with tangents than analysis. I don't feel better. I hate how she makes me so angry. I hate what she thinks about me. Why do I even care?

Dammit so much.

...

Personality: Nosy.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

* * *

"Hello, Professor Rowan! My name is Dawn. I'm eleven years old, and I'm originally from Sandgem, Sinnoh. I am interested in enrolling in your pokémon apprenticeship program."

Lucas watched the young girl with wide, burning eyes.

"Why do I want to apply for an apprenticeship?" she repeated slowly, careful to pronounce each syllable. "I love pokémon, for starters. I think they're awesome, and we have a lot to learn from them."

Lucas heard mutters, which made Dawn pause.

"Yeah, I think we have a lot to learn from pokémon as humans. The way they build communities, families – I like the way they interact. Some species have strong family dynamic. Others are able to able to disconnect from each other easily because they separate quickly. It's interesting, don't you think?"

He supposed so.

More mutters off screen.

"What makes a human trustworthy in the eyes of the pokémon?" she repeated. "Hmm ... It's easy for a trainer to pick a pokémon: strength, type, appearance, whatever ... But some pokémon never fully trust their human companions while others would risk everything for them. Interacting with humans sometimes betters the pokémon physically. How is that possible? It makes me–"

A shout: "Who's there!" The lights turned on, making Lucas cringe. He blinked rapidly and turned around in the swivel chair to where the voice called out. He didn't bother to stop the DVD; Dawn's younger self continued to babble.

Breaking in was easy. Whoever said pokémon trainers were an honest, clean bunch was obviously never a pokémon trainer. You learned to steal – food mostly, though toilet paper was a close second. You learned to find haven in dusky corners. You learned that feces make excellent sources of heat when you cannot make fires. You learned to be sneaky. You become a crafty lad. Besides, Lucas had visited Rowan's laboratory so many times that he knew all the weak spots, back doors, and loose ends.

Also, he had a key.

He already knew who it was. The messy, thin white strands that pointed up in different directions, the wrinkled blue pajamas, the pair of buneary slippers ... T'was the Old Fart as Lucas liked to call him (in his head, of course) in his disheveled glory, a mug of something steamy in hand.

"It's me, Professor," Lucas said. He raised a hand and waved though remained seated. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, no. I was up anyway." The Old Fart walked closer and peered around Lucas, gazing at the television. "Application videos," he murmured. "What for?" He took a sip of his steamy drink then wiped at his mustache.

He didn't answer. Lucas turned around in his chair back toward the television and stared at Dawn before it faded to black. It was quickly replaced with Lucas's fresh, smiling face. The Lucas on the video shifted awkwardly in his seat, shoulders stiff. His hat was still new – oh, look. There was the price tag swinging from the back as he bobbed his head. Lucas remembered feeling embarrassed when he saw the tag still there five days into his journey. His eyes were bright with wonder. Or dumbness. Or excitement. Something or another.

"I'm Lucas, and I'm eleven years old. I'm originally from Twinleaf, Sinnoh," the eleven year-old Lucas on T.V. nervously told the fourteen year-old Lucas in real life. He felt Professor Rowan rest one hand on the back of the swivel chair, leaning into it. "I would ... I'd like to apply for your apprenticeship program."

"Feeling nostalgic?" asked the Old Fart. Lucas heard slurping soon after.

He didn't respond to this either and continued to watch and listen. "You offered me this position after me and Barry were attacked by starly and used the pokémon in your briefcase. Sorry about that again." The eleven year-old wiped at the back of his neck and grinned wider. "It interested me. I'm sure it would have interested Barry too if he hadn't run off ... Actually, Professor, I'm curious. I mean, keeping a pokémon is one thing but giving me an interview for an apprentice researcher position is just ... nuts."

That was what the Old Fart was. An old, nutty fart.

"Don't worry about that, Lucas," answered a voice off screen. "Just answer why you're interested in the program." The Old Fart's chuckle hadn't changed a bit.

He shifted his cap, letting it sit askew purposely. "Well ... I like pokémon, Professor, a whole lot. Battles are interesting. I like all the strategies. I like all the type differences, the different techniques ..." The eleven year old paused. "But really, I always ... I always dreamed of just being ... of being _more_than a trainer. I really want to solve things. I want to make a difference somehow. This seems like the perfect opportunity."

That was totally a beauty contest answer. Lucas stretched over and stopped the video before turning off the television with a sigh.

"It feels like it has been a long time, hasn't it?" asked Professor Rowan. He strolled over and grabbed a nearby stool, plopping himself in it. His face was stern, unmoving.

"Have I changed, Professor?"

"You tell me, Lucas."

"I was so ... hopeful back then. I had no idea what I was going to go up against, what direction I was headed. Life was simple then. It should have stayed that way for a long, long time."

Professor Rowan nodded.

"I feel like I did a lot in three years."

Another nod.

"I mean, I even became champion of Sinnoh. That has to count for something, right?"

A third nod followed by wrinkled fingers running down a chiseled jawline.

"I accomplished what I set myself up for. But why don't I feel proud of myself? I don't believe in myself like I used to. What the hell happened?"

Professor Rowan set his mug on the floor and laced his hands together, setting them down on his lap. "Statistically, Lucas, how many trainers give up on the pokémon league challenge a month after they start their journey?"

"One out of five," the boy immediately replied. "Then the amount of league-bound trainers decreases – that is, most league-bound trainers may not give up becoming a trainer, but they quit the 'badge quest' route due to monetary, physical, or emotional constraints."

A tight-lipped grin appeared on the old professor's face. It was solemn, disappointed kind of. "League-bound trainers, even if they do not rank high in the competition, end up becoming some of the most prominent figures in society. Why do you think this is?"

Let the reasons flow. Because they're strong? Obviously. Dedication sounded fitting for the Old Fart's mindset. Confidence – you have to have balls to travel and be on stage in front of millions of viewers. Intelligence. By the time you hit the league, the trainer relies more on strategy and knowledge than dumb luck. God hope so anyway. Then you dive into corny reasons. Love. Trust. Friendship. You know, the BS responses that trainers use when being interviewed with painted grins abroad. He grimaced at that last thought. When had he become so bitter?

"I'm going to go with dedication," Lucas replied. "If a person is dedicated to a cause, he is going to prepare himself for that cause. He may become faster, stronger, or whatever it takes to accomplish that goal. Everything builds up so long as you are dedicated."

There was a twinkle in Professor Rowan's eye. It appeared when he was feeling mischievous or when one of his brilliant thoughts came into his head ... or candy, whenever the Old Fart saw candy. "I want you to be truthful, Lucas. You have done great things with your life, and you are only fourteen. You are currently one of Sinnoh's strongest trainers. The pokémon you have reported back to me has been useful with my pokémon evolution research. Your own research in the field of pokémon battle tactics is quite insightful in itself. Single-handed, you managed to wipe out one of the most notorious groups in the world. Were you dedicated to all these causes?"

"I always wanted to be a trainer, Professor."

"A researcher? A hero?"

There was hesitation. "It's not that I minded the researcher part once I really got into it. I didn't know I would go in that direction, but I did so–"

"A hero? The young child who took down Team Galactic with little help? Did you plan on becoming that person?"

He was bemused. "Well, no. Who plans on becoming that?"

He heard a weird noise slip out between the professor's lips, a mixture between a grunt and a sigh. He watched the old man reach out toward him, like he was going to pat him on the knee, but he withdrew his hand. "It's time you realize that great responsibility is often thrust upon those we trust most. In the process, the trust grows to the point that those who threw that responsibility in the first place believe those persons can do anything. We forget that those we place so high on pedestals are fallible, that they are capable of error, that they are human. So much so that even the person–the hero, the child who wanted to make a difference and was eager to please–starts to forget that, too.

"And by the time he realizes what has happened to him and how much he has changed, he doesn't know how to function without trying to please people, and it bothers him. He teaches this to those who look up to him–out of vengeance, because it's all he knows, what have you–and the pattern repeats. And then, suddenly, you're a sixty year-old man with buneary slippers on his swollen, wrinkly feet while talking to the genius that is the fourteen year-old champion of Sinnoh. And he can't help but wonder how exactly he got here ..."

Lucas watched as the professor trailed off thoughtfully. Clearly the Old Fart was so tired that he was babbling nonsense.

The Old Fart shook his head as he snapped out of his own thoughts. "In the end, Lucas, there are always going to be people that want you to be something you may not have pictured yourself to be. Sometimes it takes another set of eyes to realize the potential that is within. You are going to change – and you have, if you must know. What's important is that when you go to bed, you feel satisfied with who you have become. You're worried. I know. That's okay. That's normal. You don't have to know the answers right away."

Lucas remained quiet. "I digress," said the professor after a few seconds of silence. "I will ask you the same question I asked you three years prior, but this time, I want you to really think about it. Who are you, and who do you want to be?"

. . .

The old cabin looked a lot like Harbor Inn, Lane realized. It had similar windows except these still had the glass intact. There were the red, dusty curtains. There was the jagged, cracked concrete path. And there were the weeds, twisted and gnarled like claws coming up from the depths of hell.

Squish went somewhere – he didn't realize he left until now, actually. Julie was still here, standing next to him. They were looking at a map mounted on a tack board. It was the region of Sinnoh. They were volcano markers, brown triangles tipped with red. According to the legend, each marker was a "burn zone," which meant that the people in the area were all dead. Canalave had three.

"You shouldn't be here. Go home."

Lane and Julie turned around. It was a woman, old, wrinkled, and short. She wore a hood. Dry strands of dark hair poked out from below the hood, like twigs.

"Where are we? When did the volcanoes erupt? Class taught us they were dormant!" exclaimed Julie. "My mom and dad live there! My friends!" She gasped, hands reaching down and grabbing Lane's wrist. He felt her nails dig into his skin, but he didn't complain.

Wait. He had family there, too ... But for some reason he kept thinking about pancakes ... Mm, pancakes drenched in butter and maple syrup and whipped cream. Ooh, chocolate chip pancakes with a nice, cold glass of chocolate milk with a straw. Or blueberry pancakes. Yeah, blueberry. Wait! Strawberry! Thick slices of strawberry with powdered sugar!

"You shouldn't be here. Go home," she repeated, walking toward them. One of her gnarled hands reached forward. Such long nails. There was a color scheme to her nails. One nail was pink, the other blue, the other yellow, then rinse, wash, repeat. The two stepped back.

"Where is ... pancakes?" asked Lane.

"I said _GO HOME_!" She lunged at them and turned into a dragonite. It was a slow transformation, playing out like an action replay, like when watching a basketball game on T.V. and they replayed the same shot five times at different angles. His dad watched the most boring stuff.

He could hear the bones of the dragonite woman grind, the old, wrinkled skin stretching and turning light brown. How painful it must have been for the wings to erupt from her back. They were wet with goo. She roared. It echoed through the trees. She flapped her wings, creating a breeze. Lane admired her tail and the way she swung it around. Every swing created fire. Holy Arceus, fire! She was the volcano! The burn zone creator!

Julie tugged at his arm and quickly pulled them toward the cabin's entrance. She let go of Lane's wrist and jiggled the doorknob, but it wouldn't open.

"It's locked!" she screamed.

Lane felt the hot, hot heat at his back. The dragonite took off into the skies, and the sky turned orange from the flames she released from her mouth. He pushed Julie out of the way and used both hands to twist and turn the rusty knob. Nothing. Kicking! Kicking is always the solution! He used his dirty sneaker to kick at the ancient wood, and the door opened with a loud bang. The two quickly rushed inside, and Lane slammed the door shut. The wooden floor was damp and smelled like pee. Something gray and small was quivering in the corner.

"It's Squish!" Julie yelled, pointing with her free hand. "What happened to you?" She went over and dropped onto her knees, poking the squishy thing with her finger. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" she asked worriedly.

The castform responded with a quiver. Lane felt Squish's vibrations with his feet. Thump, thump, thump.

That boy has too much energy. I wish he would be quieter.

Thump, thump, thump.

It's time to get up, Lane.

"Get out of there, you brats!" snarled the dragonite woman. Lane yelped and jumped back as he turned toward the window and saw the beast's angry, yellow eyes glare at him. Smoke poured out between the gaps of her sharp teeth. "You have no idea what you're up against!"

"Julie! Come on! We can't stay here!" he warned. He stepped back and tripped over a loose plank, landing on his bottom with his thud. At his feet was something black and made out of shiny vinyl. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers, making an annoying squeaking noise that hurt his ears. Actually, his ears were starting to feel funny. He felt them up. Why did they feel ... bigger?

"Squish? Say something!" she demanded.

Please wake up.

Lane pulled the vinyl thing into his lap and flapped it in the air. It was like a flag ...

_This is our flag, our gallant flag  
It waves with the ocean breeze.  
Canalave be strong as this flag,  
The city that greets the open seas!  
Although many of us come and go,  
We come and then depart,  
The spirit of Canalave  
remains in all our hearts!_

It really wasn't the time to think about the city's flag song. It's funny to replace "hearts" with "farts" by the way.

"Squish!" Lane heard distress in Julie's voice like she was on the brink of crying. "You're not dying, are you?"

Lane!

Lane quickly got up, swung the black vinyl material around his shoulders, and rushed over, hunching over to stare at the castform. The poor thing was breathing heavily now, and its color was draining away, wasting away in a pool of his own color. He picked him up, ignoring the cold liquid that dripped onto his fingers. He patted him on the back, and more colored liquid oozed out.

His eyes twitched at sudden amounts of light hitting him, he swatted at his face when I ran a feather across it ... But he just won't wake up.

"Don't die, Squish!" Julie pleaded, tears forming in her eyes.

We're taking him to the hospital.

Lane turned Squish around. Horrible, blue eyes stared at him, startled him, scared him. He tried to drop Squish, but something sharp dug into his hand and clung onto him. His breath got caught in his throat. He wasn't sure if it was from surprise or pain.

He found his voice. "I ... who are–"

There is obviously something wrong. We're just not sure what.

"Why, Lane!" Squish's adorable squeaks were replaced with a low, gritty voice. "You're not scared, are you?"

"Let him go!" Julie immediately grabbed Squish, tore him away from Lane's hand and threw him against the wall. Squish hit the wall like a wet sponge before flopping onto the floor.

"It's too late, you stupid girl! He's mine!" he shrieked with glee before melting into a pool of gray liquid. White wisps of smoke rose from his body. Those horrible, blue eyes were still there, floating in the liquid. That was the last thing he remembered. Eyes in a pool of black and the screams of a girl, pleading him to stay.

But where was he going?

_"Dark ... Dar is watching me ..."_

**Last Revised: April 27, 2011**


	7. Chapter Seven

There are two types of people in this world: men and women.

I think I was going somewhere with this. I don't remember what. Something

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

I think a lot of my problems stem from my desire to control things. I'm not sure if I was always like this. Organizing your dolls by use, then height, then name ... would you consider that neurotic? It made sense to me as a child. But anyway ... It gave me a great sense of comfort knowing what was going to happen every day. I felt secure that way. I mean, of course I can handle unpredictability – I have a child for Arceus's sake. It's just ... Well, those little unpredictable moments become bigger ones, and everything starts to spiral into something I can't get a handhold on. It's nice when you have a say in what happens to you.

My first pokémon was a glameow. I named her Fuchsia. She ran away – no, I don't know why. We were okay, I think. I just became a trainer, so we weren't that close. The night before she ran away, she was curled up on top of my sleeping bag, and when I woke up, she was gone. No trace of Fuchsia anywhere. I had captured a couple of pokémon by that time, so I wasn't completely alone, but ... Why did she do that? She didn't seem unhappy. I treated her well, made sure she was well-fed, protected. I guess ... I don't know. That's the downfall with people that plan their day like that. When the unexpected happens – no, when something happens that you can't tangibly fix, you get really angry at yourself. You begin to wonder that 'what if?' What if I kept Fuchsia in her pokéball that night? Things like that.

You know, Lane was a surprise. I was only twenty; Dan was twenty-two. Dan ... That's Eldritch's first name, you know. Daniel Christopher Elijah Eldritch. Elijah is his middle name. He goes by Eldritch because he thinks his first name is too long and doesn't fit him and something to do with him being a sailor. I think he made up that last point.

Dan was out on business. I say business instead of sea. It might be a stability thing. Seas are unpredictable. This city is surrounded by it. Mother Nature throws you off just because she can. Let's, you know, throw a hurricane at you. Some lightning storms. How about snow? Business, though? That means there's a certain amount of days between when I see him and when I don't. It's concrete. There's structure in that word, business.

Well, Dan was out on business. I wasn't feeling all that well, especially in the morning. So I took the test. You know ... _the_ test. It was positive. I took another. It was positive, too. Then another. Negative. Turns out it was a false negative. Have you heard of such a thing? Apparently it happens if you take the test too late in the day or if you leave it on the counter for too long. Probably other factors that I can't remember. The point is that I was unmarried, though deeply in love–or so I thought back then–and young and pregnant. I hadn't planned on marrying and having a child until years later. I still had other plans before I could even think about that. Dan had other plans, too. It wasn't like we just started dating, me and Dan. We dated for a while before I got pregnant. We were as serious as you could be when you're in your early twenties and in a relationship.

I remember the day well. The day I told Dan, I mean. He just got back from his trip, and all he wanted to do was drink a beer and sleep. I couldn't wait. I told him, right there, right then, when he was shifting through the fridge. Just straight out with it, Aly. He's a man. He can take it. To this day, I'm not sure if he blacked out from exhaustion or my news.

"What are we going to do, Aly?" he asked when he regained consciousness. "This apartment is too cramped for a baby, I'm out of town all the time – and Arceus, do you know how much it'll cost to raise a baby? How is this going to work? What if we don't work out?" I got upset. Hormones? I don't know. I got upset that he didn't seem concerned about, well, me. I was the one carrying our child. He didn't ask how I was doing, if I needed anything. I know he cares ... Just ... All that time alone, you need some attention.

He offered to marry me. He had obligations now, he knew that. So he offered. And, desperate, I accepted. I knew I loved him, don't get me wrong; there was love. There is love, somewhere.

We made adjustments, had a quicky marriage ceremony at city hall. I settled into his apartment. I quit university. We only had so much time, and we needed money, so I had to work full time. School will always be there, I told myself. What's important now is to create stability. Dan took more jobs at sea, whether it was to get away for a bit or because we needed the money, I don't know. He cares. He's a good man, don't get me wrong. But while I was pregnant, I felt so alone when it shouldn't have been that way. It should have been a special time, my first pregnancy.

Near the end of my pregnancy, Dan was assigned to aid the locals of the Sevii Islands who had been hit with a hurricane. I told him to take it – he was going to refuse, take sick days, vacation days, because he knew I was going into labor soon. We needed it, though. We needed the money. The trip should only be a week, ten days tops. I wasn't expected to go into labor.

You know me by now. Everything spirals out of my control. My family–my mom, my dad, my siblings–live in Kanto. So I was alone, holding that little baby boy in my arms. Crying.

The expectation is that your mother is perfect. That she can do no wrong. That she holds little to no fault, no negativity running through her body. I get it. When you shatter that illusion, then who do you turn to for stability? For strength? The person who makes you feel safe? It's hard, though. Sometimes she is resentful. Bitter. I'm not talking about being angry about, let's say, her child trespassing into a rundown shanty. She's just bitter about ...

Okay.

I'll stop pussyfooting around.

Sometimes, late at night, when I'm lying in bed, I think about what could have happened to me if I didn't get pregnant at the age I did. I could have been so much more than a housewife. I blame Dan. It's terrible. And sometimes I get angry with Lane, too.

It's the situation, not the people. I can't blame the people involved; they had no say in the situation either. I can't help it, though. I can't control things. The one thing I thought I had a good handle on–that one little boy I had a substantial influence over–was suddenly ... ripped from my hands, and no one can figure out the reason why, and I get so mad.

A mother's greatest desire is to tell her child that everything is going to be okay. That, despite the hardship and the things we can't control, we'll make it through. You never want to tell them, "I don't know," to the things that truly matter.

Some people are born to be good mothers. The rest emulate. A few fail.

Something grabbed at her shoulder. She recognized it as Eldritch's calloused hand. "Aly, what the hell is going on?" he demanded.

Alyson, about to press a slender hand against the glass window, bit her lip. She watched as nurses hurriedly ran to and fro in her son's hospital room. Lane's heart monitor was beeping crazily. She felt his hand tense up on her shoulder. She wanted to cry.

"I don't know."

. . .

The sidewalk was damp from last night's storm.

"It is quite the chilly day, Darach." Lady Caitlin shivered and wrapped her fur coat tighter around her petite frame. She ran her fingers through the soft, white pelt.

Darach gave her a nod. He took grander strides to be slightly ahead of his mistress and gently wrapped a hand around her slender forearm. "Be careful with the puddles, Lady Caitlin. I would hate to see you slip."

She laughed. It wasn't loud and overbearing but quiet and sweet. It left a delicate ringing in his ears. "You are being ridiculous, Darach. I do not slip no matter what the terrain." To prove her point, she stepped over a puddle, her pink high heels clicking on the concrete. "You worry about me too much."

"I wish not to see you hurt, my lady," he replied.

Lady Caitlin patted Darach's hand reassuringly before locking arms with him, her other hand playing with the folds of her pink dress. She looked up, gray sky reflecting in her eyes. "I do hope it does not rain before we get there." An umbrella blocked her vision. "Oh, Darach." She smiled.

"It is never too late to be careful."

"I suppose so."

They approached the library and entered. The two sat down at a couple of computers and turned their chairs to face the glass wall. On the other side of the glass were tombstones barely lit by crackling, swinging bulbs hung from the ceiling.

"I hope he burns," she whispered maliciously.

"We must move the crayon boxes first, my lady," said Darach.

Darach helped Lady Caitlin pick up her box of crayons, and they moved to another set of computers. He placed each set on the top of each monitor.

"Burn the clown!" were the cheers.

"He has done nothing but rob us of our burgers!" yelled another.

Flames. Flames licked the glass panel. The cheers were deafening. The words etched on the clown's tombstone stood out against the fire.

. . .

Lucas slammed his notebook shut, hearing his pencil clatter to the linoleum floor but not caring enough to run back and pick it up. He heard screams. If there was one thing he knew, it was screams–especially girly screams–coming from the middle of nowhere late at night meant something horrible was happening. Of course running to the problem area was indeed moronic, but he couldn't help it. Actually, no, that's a lie, but who doesn't like a good damsel-in-distress story? So burst through the glass doors, Lucas. Run into the cold, bitter Sinnoh night like the moron you are.

He sighed, the frays of his scarf twisting behind him.

You know, there was a sociolingustic study (that's there sociology and linguistics merged into one handy, possibly made-up, word. Useful to know, yes?) Lucas had read in attempt to learn better communication skills. It had to do with the way men and women speak. If he remembered right, it boiled down to the general personality of boys versus girls. Boys tend to play more competitively, girls more cooperatively. When there's conflict within a girl group, the group splits in order to avoid argumentation. Boys, on the other hand, rank in hierarchy.

Break it down through your pants of breath. Communication is the balance between level of involvement and level of independence. Given what we know, the woman is more likely to lean to the involvement side of communication while the man is more independent.

Draw more conclusions. The "fairer" gender is more cooperative, which leads toward a tendency for more involvement – more back and forth between the two conversing parties, more than "simple storytelling." They listen to tone, timing, intonation – it's not just the words. Meta-messaging is what it's called if he recalled right. Take "mhm" for example. "Mhm" doesn't mean they agree with you. No, it might mean she doesn't agree with you, but she acknowledges what you said. It's an easier way, at least to the woman, to say, "I acknowledge your argument, but I think it's an idiotic argument." Men don't do that. They just want the story. They say what they mean. Women are more indirect. She picks up on things in the actual phrasing and delivery. It's all "dramatize" versus "summarize" really. Barry summed it up best:

"You see, Lucas, when you text a question to a girl who you recently had a fight with, and she texts back, 'Okay.', she's not 'okay.' That one word holds all her RAGE. She pounded all her anger into that period...

"No pun intended."

Anyway, that was a good time killer. He stopped a few feet behind the screaming source, a hand wrapped around one of the pokéballs clipped on his belt. The wind swept down the beaten path, combing its way through the foliage.

It was the girl, the stupid girl, with her piplup clinging onto her ankles and looking up her skirt.

"Arceus," he muttered. He walked over, stood next to her, and looked down, staring at what she was so wide-eyed about. The three-foot high bibarel was growling at her, teeth bared (not that it could hide them), and heavy tail smacking the dirt trail. Goddamn was he annoyed. "What did you do?"

She didn't respond and turned her head, hair brushing past her shoulder and falling behind her back in black, layered waves.

Lucas scuffed the dirt with his sneaker, sending up a dust cloud that floated toward the bibarel. Bibarel were common, known for their sharp teeth and their ability to cut through trees in a matter of minutes. They used these trees to create dams. It's a versatile pokémon, given its ability to walk on land and swim in rivers, and it is usually a gentle, quiet breed. The time made no sense; bibarel are diurnal. But this one stayed, glared at Dawn with its beady, little eyes, and snarled.

"Nothing," she finally replied.

Nothing means something. Pick up on the tone: irritated, with a gasp of exasperation. Definitely something.

"At least move."

She move back, and the bibarel growled louder and stepped forward, making Dawn and Pip stop.

He noticed the splintered wood to the side of the road. She probably stepped on the pile the bibarel had gathered, which probably woke up the sleeping creature nestled in that crushed bush over there.

Well, if the thing wasn't going to leave, and she refused to do anything, he would have to take it up another notch. Lucas unhooked the pokéball grasped in his hand, pressed the button, and felt the ball enlarge to the size of an orange.

"I'm fine," she muttered. A low tone. The "f" sound–labiodental, if he remembered right–was extended longer than usual, her front teeth pressed against her wind-chapped lips.

He didn't believe her, so he released the creature within the ball to the side.

"I said I'm _FINE_!" she screeched, pounding her boot into the ground.

The torterra, a peaceful breed. A stationary creature, one who enjoys sunlight. The starly often make nests within the makeshift shelter on its heavy shell. His, in particular, was lazy. A daydreamer. Liked to stare at things. Questioned said things. They held many a philosophical conversation through intense staring and rapid blinking. They made an odd duo, given Lucas's down-to-earth persona and his torterra's lofty, dream-like state, though he figured something more eccentric, like Dawn's piplup who currently was trying to paw up his trainer's leg, would have driven him crazy.

Lazy, indeed. His torterra started his assault by glancing at the bibarel before looking up toward the moon, obviously not interested and obviously not threatened by it. A questionable gaze of "What?" A "You woke me up for this?" A "Goddammit so much, Lucas." A turn of the head. "Who's the chick? Your girlfriend?" Whether or not his torterra actually thought those things, he didn't know. Lucas imagined he was pretty close, though.

"Mind escorting this bibarel out, Torterra?"

The torterra grunted. He could imagine the "Why?" in his eyes.

"Just do it."

The beast lifted a heavy foot and stomped. It startled the bibarel, but the beaver stood its ground, switching his attention toward Lucas's pokémon much to Dawn's dismay (but secret relief, he imagined. Women need their secrets in order to meet their daily crazy quota). The torterra shook his body, and a few leaves dislodged themselves from the tree on his back, spiraling gently toward the ground. The bibarel stared at them as they landed in front of his feet and, with another beat of his tail, turned around and brushed through the growth.

They stood there quite awkwardly (well, not that she's awkward or anything. Lucas is the awkward one. She was the beauty in the beauty-geek dynamic. Had this been one of her fabulous stories she fantasized about in her head all the time, he would be hiding his deep, eternal love for her, and she, coy and sweet, would pretend not to know that she knew that he liked her (though she did know, but that's beside the point. It's cuter when you pretend you don't know. She figured it was some sort of defensive move, like just in case the guy actually didn't like her. But that's silly talk; who doesn't like her?), and, at the end of her fabulous story, he would, in that stuttered, muttered tone he uses, confess, and she would confess she loves a geek, and they would skip into the sunset. She would also steal his hat and wear it because teasing is cute, too. AND THEN, many years later, they would have three kids, two boys, one girl, the girl being the youngest and – you've heard this before, right?) for a while. Dawn looked at Lucas, Lucas looked at Torterra, Torterra looked at the moon, and Pip, who Dawn had picked up after a few unsuccessful attempts at clawing up her leg, looked down her shirt.

"I was fine, you know," she muttered.

"I know. I just thought I'd help out," he murmured back.

Dawn wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck as the nippy wind blew. "What was that move anyway?"

There was a small pause before he responded. "I invented it. It's a mixture between Sweet Scent and Razor Leaf. Think of it as a two-step attack. The pokémon sends out a few leaves that entices the opponent with its sweet-smelling aroma and the alluring way it twirls toward the ground. The pokémon has the ability to then make the leaves shoot up toward the unsuspecting opponent. Lucky for the bibarel, Torterra didn't have to initiate step two. It probably would have made it more aggressive."

"I ... really?" she asked curiously.

He groaned. "No. Don't be stupid. Torterra shook his back, leaves from his tree were loosened and fell down, and lo behold: it ran away." He returned his sleepy torterra and sighed, clipping the ball back to his belt. "Really, battling a wild pokémon, specifically one who is timid but was putting on a show in hopes to make _you _run–which you didn't for some reason; god only knows why–is quite a complicated procedure."

"Well, I thought battling back would further agitate–"

"You thought wrong."

Dawn didn't reply. She was too angry to respond. He didn't even _deserve_a response after that.

Lucas translated it as being completely dumbfounded. "What are you doing here anyway?" he asked.

"I was going home before I stepped on that ... twig pile the bibarel had piled up." So he was right. "I live in Sandgem, remember?" She looked past Lucas and down the grainy path where Lucas had come from. "You came from there, from Sandgem. You don't live there. Why?"

"Why don't I live there?" he repeated slowly. "Well, I figured my mom was all, 'I hope my future son holds this awkward conversation with Rowan's other, more annoying, apprentice years later down the route between Twinleaf and Sandgem. But we can't live in Sandgem in order to initiate that conversation, so Twinleaf it is!' All purpose, all meaning, revolves around you if you really try."

"Stop being such a smart-butt. You know what I mean."

"I was there for business. I was heading back to Twinleaf."

"Business"–Dawn checked the time on her pokétch strapped to her bag–"ten minutes past midnight, huh? Right. Well, I won't stop you. Good night."

"Good night."

And there it was: the subtle brush against his shoulder that ALMOST made him step backward as she walked past him. He heard it, the huff, that gasp of breath. Then there was the scuff of her boot on the sand.

Translation: You're an ass. Or a smart-butt to use her lingo.

Lucas spun around and stared at the girl's figure as she traveled toward Sandgem. She walked against the wind, shivering. Pip nudged the top of his head against her chin and chirped sympathetically. She found her feet dragging, her knees tightening up, and then she just ... stopped. After sitting alone at the café for a good thirty minutes or so, she realized that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to accuse Lucas of becoming the younger version of the most diabolical man in recent Sinnoh history. But at the same time ... darn, she was mad at him. Who just gets up and walks away in the middle of a conversation? She wanted an apology, and she wasn't leaving until she got one.

"I'm not apologizing if that's what you're waiting for."

Dawn unhooked a pokéball from her bag's strap. There was a flash of red; she returned her piplup. "I know that," she lied. With her free hands, she reached behind and laced her fingers behind her neck. It was a nonchalant position; she wanted to look cool despite the anger building up inside her.

"So go home."

Her nostrils flared. "You're such a jerk."

"Doesn't mean my point isn't valid."

"You know, I thought more about you when you left."

He rolled his eyes. Dawn crossed her right foot over her left and twisted her body in order to face Lucas. Her hands were still behind her neck, elbows extended out. It was actually kind of creepy how she made a complete 180 turn without the rest of her body moving, like a bad, bad, horror movie except the deranged lunatic wielding the fiery chainsaw was also the scream queen who died second to last ... or survived and became the star of the direct-to-DVD sequel.

"You know," Dawn began, dropping her arms and letting them swing back and forth. She looked up, examining the sky filled with winking stars. "My intention behind that conversation earlier wasn't meant to hurt you, or to 'experiment,' or whatever you said. Ever since you came back three weeks ago, I could tell you were some lonely kid who, as brilliant as he is, was confused about the situations he was thrown into."

She held out her hand as soon as Lucas started to open his mouth. "Let me finish. Because of what you went through, you find it hard to trust people, and you hate it when people try to get close – and trust me; I know this from first-hand experience."

Closer and closer she inched toward him – the swing of her hips, the crunching of pebbles underneath her size five-and-a-half boots. She poked her pointer finger into Lucas's chest. "You became hardened from your journey to the top. That cute eleven year-old who forgot to rip out the tags of his favorite hat up there is long gone. He's almost robotic now in order to protect himself. He'll complete the missions set out by others without being emotionally invested. Yeah?"

Lucas felt a smirk come across his face. He had no idea why he felt cocky all of a sudden. "You think you have me figured out that easily? You think you can figure me out in one night while sitting in a café, sipping a semi-cold hot chocolate?"

"Oh, pretend all you want. Keep thinking that you're this cynical, sarcastic person that no one understands if it helps you feel superior. I'm good at my study. It took me a while, but I think I have you figured out." Dawn started to walk around him slowly, hands clasped behind her, back slightly hunched.

He watched her circle him like a bird of prey, arms crossed. Maybe it was his fatigued state, maybe it was intrigue, dunno – all he knew was that something seemed attractive – no, that's a horrible word in regards to Dawn. Something about the conversation made him want to stay, feet firm on the ground. Yes, it was the conversation that made him stay. Nothing else.

"Do you now?" he asked. "Enlighten me."

She stopped in front of him. "You're a complicated person with an even more complicated past. Honestly, I felt sad for you. I can't imagine what it's like to be near friendless. I wanted to help you. There's something about that hurt, wounded puppy look you send out that makes a girl want to hug you, even if you don't like it. I wanted to make you happy."

Dawn looked him up and down. She stepped closer; he could feel her hot breath against his face. She raised an eyebrow. "But now ... now I just think you're a tool."

She smiled at the way he stepped back, caught off-guard. "I know you've been hurt. I understand you don't entirely trust people because of all you've been through, and I sympathize as much as I can with that. But riddle me this: everyone is trying to hurt you, Lucas? _Everyone_? Such a narcissist. 'All purpose, all meaning, revolves around you if you really try.' Negative attention is better than no attention, right?"

He glared at her but she wasn't intimated.

"How classic," she added. "You're like a three year-old."

Lucas pocketed his hands, wiggling his fingers around the balls of lint. He remained quiet for a while, running his tongue against his teeth. "You talk a lot," he finally said.

"Yeah." She smiled. Their faces were only a few inches away from each other. She looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. He noticed her slightly wrinkled nose. "You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know."

"But who wants to attract pests?" He grinned back, blinking back tiredness, concentrating on shifting the tension in his body to the balled fists in his pockets. "I think we're done here. Go home."

A slight cock of her head – her left barrette caught the light of the moon and glinted. "Fine. I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital."

It took him a while to gather his thoughts, opening and closing his mouth. "I said I wasn't coming back," he finally managed to mutter out loud. His voice cracked at the end, and he visibly flinched.

This only made Dawn's grin widen. "Oh, we both know that's not true. You see, because of this conversation, I'm in your head. I threw down a gauntlet, and now your silly, determined self has to prove you're not a tool." She pulled off his hat and twirled a finger around a lock of his hair, making him frown. She tugged on it and pulled him closer, making him inhale sharply. "Not that I wasn't already, I bet." Her breath was hot on his lips. "And if you don't come tomorrow, I'm not going to be leaving your head, and I know that's going to drive you crazy. There – an excuse to stay, if it makes you feel better. So I'll see you tomorrow, hmm?" She released his hair from his grip, recapped his head, and turned on her heels, sand gritting underneath her feet. She headed toward Sandgem, her right hand lazily waving goodbye. "Good night, Lucas," she said in a dreamy voice.

That manipulative ...

He pulled a hand out and firmly pulled on the lid of his hat, letting the brim partially hide his eyes. No, she was wrong. He was leaving. He didn't need her. She's just some annoying, little brat who made quick generalizations based on one day. She's just some girl who ...

Who ...

Goddammit so much.

With that, Lucas threw his hands up, resting them on the top of his head, and watched Dawn's figure become a black silhouette, then nothing.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he finally muttered.

**Last Revised: April 28, 2011**


	8. Chapter Eight

I didn't sleep well last night. You think I would have crashed since I got home around one in the morning, but I spent most of the night trying to get comfortable. First it got too hot, then too cold, then too hot again. It was a series of drifting in and out, like the tide. Soothing relief followed by the sharp, awakening chill of its disappearance.

Yesterday was stressful, unnecessarily so. Today might be better.

You have to roll with the punches sometimes. It sounds like you're giving up, but sometimes the best defense is to make your enemies your close friends. I'm positive Barry would comment about my situation. To channel my inner Barry: "Bring that girl _down_." And maybe something about fining. I miss him. I wish we didn't drift apart.

I forgot to buy milk. I blame the girl.

Possible ability: Arena Trap – this prevents the foe from leaving. Further research required

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

Hospitals reek of disinfectant.

If you need more description, they're also very … boring. The flooring was carpet, trekked over and flattened into the ground, the synthetic fibers a hardened mesh of blue and purple. There was a brown streak on the wall to the left of Lucas' head. He didn't question what it was. It's better not to question streaks on walls, especially brown ones, when you're in a hospital. Streaks, like rope, are things that should be fought against. An undeniable truth.

What else is there? The lights are fluorescent. If you look down the hall, the entrance's sliding doors have fingerprints of all shapes and sizes smudged on them. That made no sense considering you didn't need to touch the door to exit. Whatever. Sunlight streamed through the door, a translucent liquid gold. The benches were made out of some weird vinyl material.

There was a half-circle counter stacked with paper and clipboards and charts. It was white, the counter. T'was the nurse's station or something like that. There were nurses there. That's stupid. A mass collection of persons of the same occupation in one general location doesn't make that area that group's area. You can't just claim property like that. Chaos would ensue if that was true! Oh, god he was tired. Did that even make sense?

Oh, that girl was here, too. She was reading that myths book. Stupid myths. Lucas turned his head toward her, and he caught a disorientated version of his reflection in her barrettes. He looked funny, his nose too big, his eyes too small, and his hair pointing out in different directions (well, that was probably the only truth in the reflection). She turned her head slightly, noticed him looking at her, and she smiled. He smiled back. What the heck?

Dawn looked back down toward the text she placed so snuggly on top of her thighs. "'There once were pokémon that became very close to humans,'" she read out loud after seeing how bored the poor boy looked, her index finger following the words. "'There once were humans and pokémon that ate together at the same table. It was a time when there existed no differences to distinguish the two.' Know what that means?"

"Hmm," he pondered. An interesting conundrum. How to go about answering it? He snapped his fingers. "There once were pokémon that became very close to humans. There once were humans and pokémon that ate together."

"That's exactly what I said."

"Fantastic."

She rolled her eyes. "Still bitter from last night, hmm?" She affectionately rubbed her palm against Lucas's hair and ruffled it.

Bitter? Please! He scooted over, quickly throwing on his cap over his unruly strands. Ha! Take that! You can't rub hair with a hat on! Who's not bitter now? Wait, what?

"Whatever," he murmured. "Your little myth here could mean a variety of things. It can be about the evolution of pokémon, specifically those who are considered 'humanoid.' Pokémon, according to history, were more ally than beast. Much more than your 'household pet,' your partner-in-training. Relationships between human and pokémon were formed that would be frowned upon today. This myth implies that these relationships formed the humanoid pokémon."

"So you _can_ read past the literal. Good to know."

"You should have known that."

"Probably." She grinned. She flipped back and forth between the thin pages, a loose strand of hair brushing past her face. "This myth stood out to me. Humanoid pokémon and their origins have always been a mystery. I know it isn't your specialty, but I'm sure you have an opinion on it. What do you think?"

He considered the question thoughtfully, scuffing a foot across the carpet. "From a very basic viewpoint, I would consider adaptation. Those who are humanoid–machoke, kadabra, lucario, and so on–live in rocky terrain, and having the ability to walk on two legs while using your forearms to pull you up is much more useful. You'll be able to trek further in such areas."

She nodded, so he continued. "Likewise, the quadruped is more common in forest areas since it is relatively flat terrain. It makes them more agile to avoid predators – or catch prey."

"So ... You think pokémon that lived in rocky terrain were once quadruped but evolved into bipeds out of necessity?" Dawn closed the book lightly and ran a finger down the well-worn spine. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

He glanced down the hallway where a couple of nurses were speed walking from room to room. "I think they evolved, sure, but from what I don't know."

"But consider other bipeds in the pokémon world. Chansey, for example, do not live in rocky terrain but in the meadows."

"I wouldn't consider chansey humanoid."

"Still." She turned her head and opened her eyes, the pale white light of the hospital reflecting in her eyes. She stared at the side of Lucas's head, watching him fidget with the pokéballs clipped to the side of his belt. "I'd like your input."

There was a pause. Move your head slow. Look slow. Look slow so you don't seem alarmed by the request because you're not. Eyes to the side. Eyes on the peripherals – wait, would that look shifty? Like you're annoyed? Like you thought the request was stupid? Because you don't think it is. Shift your body instead. Why must vinyl be so loud when you move against it? Position your feet to the left. Grip your pokéballs tighter if you're nervous. You're nervous; your nails are digging into your palm. Why are you so nervous? Stop being so nervous. Now move the rest of your body. Your torso needs to move slightly to the left too, you awkward robot. There. Now look at her. Look. Really look. Take her in and look.

Light acne covered in makeup; he could see the few bumps on her forehead. Her eyeliner–or mascara, or eye shadow, or whatever it's called–was smudged at the corners of her eyelids. Was that on purpose? Cheeks were rosy. Was that natural? What do they call it? Blush? The term used for both the makeup and natural glow? How neat. Her lips were shiny, almost sticky looking. Fancy, fancy, sparkly chap stick. Or lip gloss. Something. A few thin strands of dark hair escaped her barrettes and brushed against her cheek, bouncing up and down with every move she made.

And her smile–white teeth visible between slightly parted and sticky lips–was lovely. Ugh, what the heck again?

"Chansey," he murmured a few seconds after she asked. "Well, they are rare to begin with, or they are well at hiding. I'm not sure if they are hunted down – I would think so because of how nutritious and beneficial the egg it carries is. That's besides the point, though."

"I guess," she said, nodding her head. "Go on."

He racked his brain. It amused him to think of his brain like a filing cabinet sometimes, the file drawers opening and an invisible hand flicking through manila folders until it stopped at the right one. He pulled it out and details on chansey filled his mind. "Let's see ... Despite their odd shape, chansey are actually quite good at escaping foes. Their shape, I believe, has more to do with the ... what is it called? The maternal, nurturing state of the chansey. Given the position, I suppose being biped makes travel easier while keeping their upper arms free in case of threat. They're able to hunch over, protect their egg, if under attack."

"Makes sense," she replied, gripping the book between her hands. "But back to humanoid pokémon. I understand the adaptation aspect of it, but I'm stuck on the origins. Data only goes back so far. Do you think pokémon were once humans? No, that isn't what I meant to say. Did … interbreeding–" Dawn's face scrunched up in confusion when she said the word. This made Lucas raise his eyebrows, amused. "–between pokémon and human create the humanoid type? Fighting types are extremely humanoid. Are they just super-powered humans? Psychic pokémon also have human-like qualities and seem to have better cognitive processes. Are they an expansion of the human mind?"

He noticed her nose crinkle at the thought. "An interesting question," he replied.

"I was going to specialize in it but ... I don't know. Is it even possible for human and pokémon to breed? Different sets of genes and all that stuff."

Lucas looked at the clock mounted on the wall above the automated doors. Six minutes past eleven. He had called Eldritch and Alyson earlier–around seven or so–and, from what he could piece together from Eldritch's incoherent statement, they were told to meet at eleven o'clock in front of the nurse's station–or doctor's station, or juggler's station, or whatever mass collection of persons of a certain occupation were gathered there at that very moment. At least that's what he thought he heard. "Meet us at that one ... that one counter thing. You know, that big counter thing. You remember right? It was that big counter thing in that big thing in front of that thing. You know now? And bring Sunny or Dawn or Sparky or whatever her name was if you're not mad at her anymore. Okay, Lukey Lu?" can only get you so far.

"I know it sounds fishy," she said as Lucas stared at the clock, unaware that he had dazed out, "but I do think that the essence of that myth is, to an extent, true."

He blinked rapidly a few times. "Well …" he let the word drag on. "Let's throw you a hypothetical. If pokémon truly are descendants of humans, why did they lose their ability to communicate in human language?"

"The stronger psychic types are able to communicate in any human language telepathically," she said. "Slowking and lugia are a couple of examples."

"Vocally, I meant."

"What if they lost that ability because it was unnecessary to learn the complexities of speaking human language? Pokémon have larynges, tongues, teeth, lips. Consider the wailord. Its skeleton reveals that it has a pair of pelvic bones buried underneath the skin. It has the bones that have helped it walk, even if it doesn't need to now. What makes this any different from the pokémon's inability to combine its vocal muscles to create human syllables?"

"You can't really compare the wailord's pelvic bones to all of pokémon's vocal organs. The former is not used at all and the latter is used in a distinctly different way from how we use them. Pokémon in no way have lost their ability to speak – their trainers just don't specifically understand the combination of syllables they use."

She didn't say anything, but he felt like he should pause. "As far as we know," he continued, "pokémon language could be more complex than human speech given they're able to communicate across various species. I don't think human speech is an indication that a pokémon evolved from a human – I guess that's my own fault for bringing it up. What makes a human a human anyway?"

"Wit? Ability to create something grander through simple means? Technology? Fear of death? Our love-hate relationship for crappy reality T.V.? Morality?"

"Maybe."

"I think morality." She leaned her head against the wall again, facing Lucas this time. A finger wrapped itself around the loose ends of her scarf. There was the brown streak in between them, the referee. "Perhaps the manipulation of thought. Humans are able to manipulate their thoughts so what is deemed 'bad' is seen as 'good' in their eyes."

"I don't know about that. I don't think anyone is really trying to be 'the bad guy'. Some people, despite how evil others see them, believe they're doing good for the world because that is truly what they believe. I think the complexities and various definitions of 'bad' and 'good' are a human quality in itself."

"I guess." She shrugged. "How do you think humanoid pokémon came to be then?" Dawn asked, crossing her legs. "Did they evolve from something simpler even if it wasn't a human? Or have they always just been like that?"

"It's a little too early to get into a philosophical debate."

"I know. I'd just like to know your opinion. I'll drop it after that."

Lucas noticed the hospital door open, and the stocky figure of Eldritch and the petite form of his wife entered. The young sailor had a slight ... swerve in his step as if tipsy on one or two or ten bottles of beer, while his wife gracefully stepped forward with her strapped sandals, swinging her hips back and forth gently. "I think," he said, "that you need to be in order to be. But some things just are."

"Are you still talking about pokémon?"

"I'm talking about anything." He grabbed hold of the brim of his hat and pulled it down. He stood up, greeting the couple walking toward them. "Good morning, Mr. Eldritch." He nodded at him. "Mrs. Eldritch."

"Aly," Alyson replied with a warm smile, brushing locks of wavy brown hair behind her shoulder. She nudged her husband with elbow after a few seconds of silence. "Danny–"

"Eldritch," he grumbled, wiping at his bloodshot eyes. "My name is Eldritch." He scratched the top of his head, fingers running through his greasy, black hair.

"It's um–" Dawn quickly stood up and placed the myths book on the bench. She wiped her hands on her skirt. "It's nice to see you again. How are you both doing?"

"We're well considering the situation," Alyson answered. She sidestepped and nudged Eldritch again so a nurse wheeling a patient out could pass by. "It's reassuring to know that Lane is stable and healthy at least."

"It's the 'why' and 'how' really." Eldritch stifled a yawn. "Sorry. I managed to catch a couple more hours before you called, but I'm still pretty worn out." He turned his head toward the boy in front of him and grinned, rubbing his chiseled, but stubble-adorned, jaw. "I'm glad you called, Lucas."

"I'm glad, too," remarked Dawn.

Lucas shifted his nerves into his fists, shoving them into the pockets of his jeans. He balanced his weight on the balls of his feet. "I'm ... Um, anyway, you told me there was some new revelation? At least that's what I think I heard."

"Come." Aly took a step forward and motion the rest of the group to follow. "Let's visit Lane first."

**. . .**

Lance, being the ever popular figure, had a cartoon show based on him.

"Based" is such a loose term. "Inspired" would be the proper word had the cartoon been about Lance's triumphs and hardships. Add some romance, a little drama, someone pushing someone else into a pool ... series gold. But the cartoon was about Lance and a bunch of talking pokémon living in Goldenrod City. Crazy situations occur. Crazy solutions are the answer. Then you wrap it up with a moral, like bacon around a hot dog. It's kind of unnecessary, sure, but everyone loves bacon. Lane lapped it up like a hungry kitten after a bowl of milk. It was the reason why he got up at six-thirty in the morning on a Saturday.

But you knew all this already, didn't you?

Anyway …

Was he a girl for a minute?

Everything was cartoon. Lane wasn't sure if he was watching the cartoon, or if he was in it. He couldn't see himself. Maybe he was a ghost. OoOooOooh! Is that the noise ghosts make?

He was standing on the street corner of a bustling city. It was animated, too. Everything was bright but at the same time mundane. The buildings were kind of blurry and colored the same golden brown. The glass windows had the same glint in them despite being drawn at different angles. The sun gave light to everything; the only shadows, in the shape of dark gray blobs, were beneath the pokémon's feet,

There were other cartoon beings. Most of them were pokémon standing on their hind legs. They were looking up toward the two-toned sky – no, the top of a building. "The Goldenrod Department Store" Lane read on the sign. He was standing near a quacking psyduck.

"What's going on?" he asked. Maybe the psyduck could see him.

"Look!" it quacked, flapping its wings. He wasn't sure if it was talking directly to him or just stating the obvious.

He looked. His vision panned forward somehow. Closer and closer and closer. It was the elusive gabite Lance was seeking and was secretly rivals with. Its blue and red scales were shiny in the cartoon sun. Beady, yellow eyes were narrowed. In his hands was a shotgun, cocked and pointed toward the wide-eyed civilians on the ground.

"Get out!" it snarled. "You shouldn't be here! Any of you! Go home!"

Where was home? He felt sadness overwhelm him as he stared at the gabite, staring at the sharp points on its back that stood out so threateningly against the calm, two-toned blue of the sky.

There was a loud CRACK! The pokémon began to scream and run around as more wild shots were fired. Lane couldn't see any of the shots being fired, or smoke, or anything, and he didn't join in the panic. As soon as he turned his head to the right, there was the psyduck. It was dead. No blood, though. He couldn't imagine a pool of blood. That's too much. Lane knew he was dead though, the way it looked so endlessly into the sky filled with fluffy clouds. The characteristic "tongue-out-of-mouth" was in place, a sure cartoon sign that the psyduck was gone.

More bodies hit the floor. Still no blood. Too much to imagine.

"Get out of here!" was the most predominant scream. "Anywhere but here!"

Lane looked around again. Near and far were bodies. Where could you run? Nowhere. He could find you anywhere, that deranged gabite. Bodies lined the exit. Bodies decorated the plaza, the entrance of the department store, in alleys, in open daylight. But he couldn't find him, Lane. He wasn't being shot at. But as a flaffy fell in front of him after being shot in the back, baaing and gasping at his shoes before it died, he couldn't figure out why he didn't run just to avoid the horrific scene. He guessed he didn't know the way out. He wasn't from Goldenrod. Maybe he couldn't run. Ghosts don't have feet.

Then how did he have shoes ...?

He missed something because everyone was cheering, and the gabite was gone. All the bodies that littered the ground disappeared, and death was replaced with dancing. Lane turned his attention toward across the street. Lance! There was Lance, the greatest dragon tamer in Kanto–no, the entire world! He was standing across the street, gripping his arm. Lane didn't move, just watched, as his hero slowly lifted his hand. Drops of blood rained toward the concrete. His hero's hand was soaked in it. Lance cringed and tightened his grip on his wound, slowly sliding toward the floor until his knees were curled up to his chest. He was hurt, obviously, but still alive. Something was just wrong with his arm. Maybe he got shot.

And then came Lina, that silly, bumbling pichu that ruined all of Lance's plans (though meaning well, of course). She noticed, with her head cocked to the side, the hero in pain, particularly in the arm region.

"I'll help!" Lane heard her cry, and she hopped on top of Lance's knees, pulled at his arm that maybe got shot at, and twisted and pulled at it. Something cracked, sickeningly so. She brushed her hands before wiping them on her tiny frame; a job well done. Lane noticed the streaks of red on top of her once shiny yellow coat, but she didn't seem to notice – or care. Then she left.

There was a loud yell from Lance before he slumped to the ground onto his back, comical X's in his eyes. Like he died. His dragonair flew by and rested her long body against Lance's, nudging his face with hers. Shift to nightfall. Everything fast forwarded to night, like all cartoons have the ability to do. Crickets chirping. Dancing long gone – creatures gone, too. There was the silver, pale moon above along with a vast arrangement of stars. An airplane buzzed by. Lance was unmoving, and so was his dragonair, patiently waiting.

**. . .**

Dawn couldn't help but jump back as Lane's body twitched, followed by a sharp exhale, like a gasp. He squirmed a little, disturbing the sheets on his bed. His face scrunched up, his small lips in a frown. But then he relaxed. It was odd, like sleep constipation.

She swore he heard him talk, sweet Lane, but no one else seemed to notice. It was a whisper, floating in the airspace above before being swept away like dust. She stared into his face, drinking it in.

Dawn wanted to be a teacher once. In the end she realized that it was more about the human connection that interested her, so she quickly ditched those plans. But teachers, especially those who are called to that field by destiny or God or whatever, create bonds with their pupils. They get to know a little about their students – their life, their history. She liked stories. Teaching seemed like a good way to know other people's stories. Basic questions and answers weave stories.

What is Lane's story, Dawn?

An eight year old, she answered. An eight year old living in Canalave. He has a mother, a housewife, and a father, a sailor, and they live in a quaint one-story house in the suburbs. Blue eyes. Black hair. Big ears that stuck out. A younger, skinnier image of his dad but with the cool blue eyes of his mama. According to his dad, he has a fascination with Lance. Somewhere along the lines he fell into some ... "sleeping spell" to use simple terminology.

Meaning?

Think about it. If he's eight and into Lance, it must mean he has some sort of interest in pokémon. In two years, he'll be able to register as a trainer. He must be excited about that.

A solid household in the suburbs ... that probably means a stable childhood. A mom that's a housewife indicates that she is quite invested in her child, which could translate into the mother being overprotective. His father would be seen as the less disciplinary one, seeing as the father is often out at sea. So there might be a more ... stricter element when it comes to Lane's and his mother's relationship while his relationship with his father is looser. A relationship you feel at ease with is the relationship you're more often to tell your secrets and truths to.

Life is kind of funny like that.

So a mother who may be overprotective, and an eight year old child who may be excited about becoming a trainer in two years, plus factor in the adventure-loving father, proven by the mere fact that the father is a sailor ...

That can't be good. Conflict. By no means disruptive, but she could see how it could make the household stiff.

"I know I already asked before, but do you mind telling us what Lane was doing the day before he fell into his slumber?" she heard Lucas ask.

A good question. Dawn found herself taking a step closer to peer into the sleeping Lane's face. She saw his nose twitch which made a small smile tug at her lips.

"He was playing at that old Harbor Inn with a couple of his friends," answered Alyson from the opposite side of the bed. One hand was holding onto Lane's hand, her thumb stroking the back of it. Her body position was slightly slumped.

_Their shape, I believe, has more to do with the ... what is it called? The maternal, nurturing state of the chansey. They're able to hunch over, protect their egg, if under attack._

Definitely protective, she read through the simple body positions. But the loving stroke of her thumb was tender. Delicate. Sweet.

"I was walking home from the grocery store when I saw Lane try to climb through the window. Luckily, I managed to stop him."

"And later that night?" asked Lucas. She felt him brush up against her bare forearm accidentally, making the hairs on her arm stand on edge.

"He was playing in his room, pretending to be like Lance as he often does. I had Eldritch talk to him about what happened earlier," said Alyson. "He's more open with him than with me."

Knew it. Dawn held back a grin.

"We had a little talk, Lane and I. He told me something strange. I told you about it earlier," piped in Eldritch.

Lucas nodded. "Something in the Inn, right?"

Dawn thought about Lance. What a handsome man that Lance. But why would Lane like Lance? He had dragons and he was a heroic figure. Definitely something a little boy would look up to. Was she reading too much into it? Was the fantastic life of Lance was an escape from the drama of home?

She looked toward Eldritch and Aly. The two seemed comfortable with each other. Aly's other hand was wrapped around Eldritch's muscular arm. Maybe she was wrong. All pairings have disagreements but that doesn't mean a household in the midst of a breakdown. Besides, all little kids like to imagine regardless of the situation at home.

But why enter try to enter the Inn, Dawn?

To impress his friends of course. You could tie in the overprotective mother again, and most kids do the complete opposite of what their parents say in order to rebel but all kids do stupid things for their friends.

"Did he tell you about anything he saw? Any noises, smells?"

"Eyes," was Eldritch's answer.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"

"He just said he saw eyes."

Lucas turned toward Dawn. "Hypnosis?" he asked.

It flattered her that he was asking her opinion for once. "You told me that those who fall under a hypnotic sleeping state awaken in a few hours naturally," she replied, feeling ever-so-smart even if she was repeating what he said before. "You also said that it was highly inaccurate, especially if you factor in distance, the length of how long the spell was cast, and how long the prey was looking." She saw Alyson flinch near the end of her statement. Prey was for animals, for pokémon, and Lane was no pokémon. She bit her lip at her insensitivity. That wasn't like her. Too much analysis. Too much indirectness. Too much Lucas.

Lucas turned his head back toward the Eldritchs. "Do you know if Lane looked long?"

Alyson shook her head. "I saw him just when he was about to climb in. He couldn't have looked in for more than five seconds."

And there it was. She was sure of this time. "Watching ..." passed the little boy's lips. She was sure because everyone else looked toward Lane at the same time.

"That's the new 'revelation,'" Aly murmured, gripping her son's hand tighter. "He's been repeating something along the lines of 'Dar is watching me.' Maybe it was 'dark'? I was here the first time he said it – Eldritch was getting food–"

"That's when I ran into you, Lucas," remarked Eldritch.

"–And after he said it, his heart monitored started to beep like crazy. He calmed down after a while but it was still bizarre. And scary."

Dar (or Dark) is watching me. What did that mean? Dawn gripped her myths book tighter in her left hand. A dark type? A spirit? Maybe "dar" was someone. Dad, maybe? It sounded ominous. A warning of sorts. Maybe it was part of a dream. If you're sleeping, you're dreaming, right?

"Then I suppose our next step is to check out Harbor Inn." Lucas laced his hands behind his head. Dawn noted his body language. His right knee was popped out as he placed all his weight on his left and his elbows were pointed forward instead of toward the sides. It was a relaxed position, a contemplative position. Hands laced behind your neck could range from anything, though, from complete ease to high stress and frustration. She liked to think the former. Maybe he was finally comfortable with her. Maybe there was hope for this relationship after all.

"Maybe there's a pokémon lurking inside that is capable of using powerful sleep-inducing spells," Lucas explained to the parents. "Or maybe there's proof that Lane hurt himself on accident." It was a series of rapid-fire maybes, one after the other. You're not exactly sure if they're hitting or missing but all that matters is that they're being shot. Points are still addressed, even if they're wrong.

"He was hanging out with his friends the day before?" asked Lucas.

"Yes. Their names are Julie Edmund and Francis Miller. They go to the same school. Their homes aren't far from here."

"Maybe we should talk to them, too," he suggested.

"Maybe," she added. She felt like she added nothing in contribution. Her "maybe" was just to talk, really.

Dawn's eyes cast toward the window. Sunlight poured through the blinds, leaving horizontal streaks of light and shadow. She followed the path toward the adjacent wall where the light angled. The walls were painted blue, but there were drawings on the wall. Cute drawings of pokémon: dragonite, gyrados, wingull, pikachu. On the table next to Lane's hospital bed was a vase of flowers with petals that were starting to droop. The table was littered with trinkets. Toy cars. A bag of marbles. Pokémon cards. Empty pokéballs. They were lined up so neatly. The pictures on the wall were taped in straight rows of three.

Decorations, she thought as Lucas and the Eldritchs continued their chitchat. An association of the familiar, to make the hospital room more comforting rather than a place of fear. That's the basis of his parents adding Lane's drawings and toys to the room, she figured. But they were tidy. A sense of control. A desire for stability. Taking hold of the situation and having some sort of say in it. You may have put my child in here, but I have the power to make what his room looks like. The flowers? That's because all hospital rooms need flowers.

Someone had pulled the blinds up and opened the window. The cool ocean breeze entered, first in slow, tentative puffs than grander gusts that made the drawings flap. She shivered, strands of loose hair dancing about her shoulders.

"Ready?" Lucas asked, turning toward her.

"Huh?"

"We're leaving?" he answered slowly, followed by an inflection in his voice. "Where are you today?"

She blinked rapidly a few times. "Thinking," was her simple reply.

"Well, pack it in a to-go box. We have some research to do."


	9. Chapter Nine

I'm trying to deal with it. Arceus knows I'm trying.

I said earlier that I like to be alone. That's true. But I also know I'm better off that way. Everyone else is better off that way. Over dramatic? A little.

It's just ...

I know what I went through. It's taken me quite some time to understand what happened two years ago. In some ways, I still can't wrap my mind around it. I still have a lot of issues to work out. I understand how detrimental other people can be. I don't want to do that to others. I refuse to burden them with my problems. I don't want to recreate the ill-effects the people I trusted did to me.

In a strange way, it's me caring for others by not caring for others.

...

Possible ability: Inner focus – the user is protected from flinching.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

They lived in a house in a tropical location. It was either Hoenn or the Sevii Islands. All Lane knew was that he had to jump on the tops of large, flat stones that rested in the river to get to his house made out of shiny planks of dark wood. The water was freezing, making his toes turn into raisins.

... Not literally, of course.

He distinctly remembered the waterfall in the background complete with rainbow above as he went inside. The air was humid and hard to breathe. They were having some sort of family party. Aunt Beatrice was there (blech!) with her hairy mole on the right side of nose, and she went over, wrapped her arms around him, and smooched him on the cheek. He broke free and skipped toward the backyard's porch where his dad was preparing the grill for a barbecue.

"Your cousin is in the house. See if she has the meat ready," he told him.

He ran back in and somehow ended up at a laundry room. He pushed the door open a little, hearing it squeak, and saw his older cousin crying and fussing over something.

"Is the food ready?" he asked.

"I can't do it," she cried. "Tell Uncle that I can't do it!" She ran off, brushing past him.

Lane looked down the hallway toward the glass doors where his dad was flipping a few hamburger patties onto the grill. He walked into the laundry room, standing on tippy-toe to peer into the open washing machine. A ponyta was in it, folded and curled around the center. Two of its hooves stuck out above the top. He saw the horse's eyes, two brown, round things. They blinked back at him.

**. . .**

"You go in first," she urged.

He looked back at her. "Are you nuts?" he muttered, facing forward again.

"Chicken," was her quick reply.

Lucas and Dawn stood in front of the rotting fence that bordered Harbor Inn.

"Well, you go in if you're so brave," he retorted.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because in the movie of life, I am the wise character."

"Excuse me?"

"You know, that one girl who changes the life of the protagonist by pushing him to do idiotic things."

"I'm the protagonist?"

"Yes."

"You must have some sort of self-confidence issue if you diminish your role to supporting character in the movie that is your life."

"Prolly." She smiled.

"So you go in first."

"I am 'l-o-l-ing' from your command. Really."

"Please don't Internet acronym around me ever again."

"Fine, as long as you don't turn nouns into words again."

"Words?"

"Verbs. I meant verbs."

"Then what about words like 'cook?' Or ' judge?'"

"You know what I mean. Stop being a meanie."

He rolled his eyes, resting his hands on the fence's gate. He gave it a slight push, and the gate opened slowly with a squeak, the bottom getting tangled in the weeds as it scraped backward into the lawn. "What's the big deal anyway?" he asked more to himself than the girl next to him. "It's just some old building."

"Supposedly haunted," she added, crossing her arms. "With ghosts."

"Compared to other spiritual beings?"

"I think ghouls haunt buildings."

"Which are ghosts."

"No, silly. A ghost is, like, the soul of someone departed that lingers around for the 'lulz'."

"I thought you were going to stop that."

"I lied. Anyway, a ghoul steals bodies or something."

"So why would a ghoul be in a building that is empty?"

"To wait for stupid people to go in. But like I said, ghosts. Not ghouls. No worries." She gave him a thumb's up and clicked her tongue.

He sighed. "Come on."

Lucas took a step forward, sneakers squashing ants. Dawn was on his heels, her head turning left and right in paranoia. Dandelions grew up between the cracks of the concrete pathway. He kicked one down, and the white seeds released themselves from the stem and twirled around his ankles. Dawn let out a small giggle.

"They tickle," she said, bending over a bit to brush her bare legs.

The porch's wooden steps creaked as the two climbed up. Lucas examined the door, the jagged lines that zigzagged across the ancient wood. He focused in on the rusted knob. "Locked," he assumed. He stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around it. A jiggle. A nudge. "Yep." He gave the door a light kick, making it thud.

Dawn jumped off the porch to the side, standing ankle deep in weeds. She kicked them down with her heavy boots and approached the broken window. "Here. Maybe you can enter through here." She brushed a broken shard off the windowsill and it fell near her feet, shimmering in Sinnoh's hot afternoon sun. She looked up, her eyes squinting, and gazed at the sky. It was a deep blue touched by a puff of white. The hot air was suffocating in a way, making her sleepy.

Lucas ignored her par usual as he fumbled with something in his pocket. She sighed. Another brilliant idea wasted. She looked back toward the window. The wind was light today, barely making the thick, red curtains in front of the window shift, so she moved them for nature, the cloth feeling oddly sticky and wet under her fingertips.

No ghosts. No motion. Nothing.

Inside was dark. From what she could make out from the sunlight that streamed in was old furniture – the form of a sunken couch, a kitchen table standing proudly on four legs, a wooden staircase with broken posts. Lots of broken glass. Lots of splintered wood. It smelled like a public bathroom.

And then there was Lucas. He blinked a couple of times, staring at her in bewildered expression.

"What the heck?" she asked more to herself than the boy standing inside the inn. "How did you get in?"

He nudged his head toward the entrance, the door wide and open, letting the cool ocean breeze blow in and out. It was like the inn's first exhale after a long time of holding its breath.

"You said it was locked!"

He held up a pocket knife and folded it back into its base, slipping it back into his pocket.

"You think something so simple would have been done by other people trying to enter and fix this place," she murmured, an eyebrow raised up.

"Or maybe no one cares," he replied.

"Something like that." Dawn left the window alone and took one huge step to get back onto the porch. She tentatively approached the door, the hair on her arms pricking up, and entered slowly, one hand grasping the solid, wooden door frame. Her hair swung around her right shoulder as she leaned in, inhaling and exhaling in quick, short breaths. "See anything?" she asked.

He turned his head. "Dust," he said.

"And?"

"Furniture."

"And?"

"Rope."

"The fiend."

Lucas took a step back from the window and gave it a good look up and down. _I saw him just when he was about to climb in. He couldn't have looked in for more than five seconds._ His brow furrowed. He turned around, narrowed his focus. In direct line of sight, the view from the window to the back of the room was unobstructed. Nothing seemed ... odd, out of place. There was the long kitchen table that fed many a sailor; the lumpy couch used as a place for achy feet to relieve themselves; and the clock on the wall, long dead, its bronze roman numerals catching the light depending on what angle Lucas looked at it. They were your typical items seen in any bed-and-breakfast setting.

The floorboards under his feet groaned as he walked past the kitchen table. Soon enough he reached the other end of the Inn. He looked down. A collection of mold was growing from the bottom of the wall. There were droppings, dry, round, and hard, scattered here – everywhere really. Pokémon had taken habitat in the old inn but not for a while; they were most likely rodent types given the shape and size of the fecal matter. As far as he knew, rodents had limited attacks that used their eyes besides the common Leer to scare away predators and Foresight to help them see in the dark. Hypnosis wasn't one of them.

"Anything?" Dawn asked from the door. "Anything, you know, unusual?"

Lucas didn't like to be believe in the unusual. To be more specific, the truly unexplainable–rather, the answers to the unexplainable that are created out of thin air–are things that bug him the most. They tell him that the unexplainable answer–the myth–has a basis of logic, but do these answers truly appear for these people? Or do these people look toward anything for an answer?

Eldritch was so adamant about "eyes in the inn." This was a man who, too, knew stories but did not necessarily believe in them, and yet he was sure that his boy and his mention of eyes had something to do with something.

He shook his head, his right hand tightly holding the brim of his hat. He turned his head, his chin resting on shoulder, and looked at the window again, its curtain slightly flapping, letting in the sun. Yawn, however accurate it may be, would be hard to see from such a distance and from the limited light. No, it couldn't be Yawn. And what about birds, pokémon that commonly use sound-based attacks to lull their foes? Well, it's not very likely they would take solace in such a cramped and damp area, especially if rodents were living here, too.

What the heck was he doing here? It's obvious that this location has nothing to do with Lane's state. He had to have done something else that day ... Heck, _he_ had better things to do today.

"The Harbor Inn," Dawn said as she slowly crept in, releasing the door frame from her grasp. The floorboard creaked and ached underneath her feet as she walked toward him. "You've heard about this place, right?"

He nodded.

"Were you around when it was open?"

He gave her a look, his lips in a small frown and his eyes rolling to the side.

"Oh, don't give me that," she muttered. "Maybe you're actually fifty instead of fourteen. The bags under your eyes certainly tell me you're old." She grinned and stood on tippy toe, patting his hat down, making him wrinkle his nose. "You know, sailors back in the day used this place as a makeshift home. You know, between trips."

"Obviously."

"And one day it just closed down."

"Just closed down?"

"Like the owner died or something like that. He had no kids or a wife or any sort of family nearby, so I guess they just closed it."

"Awesome." Lucas shoved his hands into his pocket par usual his fidgety self and shifted his weight from the heels to the balls of his feet. The floorboards groaned with each rock back. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well ... Maybe it's because the building is so old and run down, but people believe this place is haunted."

"You told me that earlier. We got into a debate about ghosts versus ghouls, remember?"

"I know, I know." She waved this off. "But I was reading that myths book – stop giving me that look, Lucas. I was reading that book, and it went into the story about this place. I didn't finish it, but I read how when there is a new moon, people sense that there is some sort of spiritual thing inside."

He sighed. "So?"

"Soooooo it went on to say that when people cross paths with this place around new moon time–like really close ... like look into the window close–they say funny things happen to them."

"Such as?"

"I dunno. It never really detailed it. Just things. Kind of sounds like what Eldritch told you, doesn't it?"

"I'm sure he picked up that story from someone else, who picked up that story from someone else, and so on. It doesn't make it true that it's known throughout the locals."

"Just sayin'. That's not my point. Both stories relate to the moon. Can you think of any pokémon that respond to different moon patterns? Maybe the pokémon that attacked Lane is active during the new moon phase which explains why we may not be able to find it now."

He racked his brain. "Clefairy, but they are associated with the full moon. Same applies to the lunatone species in Hoenn. I'll have to look into it. Interesting development, though. It could help explain things." Lucas looked at the girl and, with a loud exhale, said, "Nice find, Dawn."

She beamed. "Thanks."

"Yeah. Well." He turned around (out of embarrassment or because he was still looking for traces of pokémon, who knows) and examined the wall. There were scratch marks cut into the moldy, now brown, plaster. There was a pile of dead leaves and sticks in the corner that managed to remain relatively untouched by the sweeping winds – he thought too soon. The ocean breeze brushed through and stirred up the dirt and droppings in small circles around the floor. "At least we have a lead up on something. Let's go look out–" A loud creak caught his attention, so he snapped his head to the right, noticing that the girl was scurrying up the stairs. A sigh. "Get down here."

Dawn looked back, one hand gripping the stair rail, and said, "No," quite cheerfully before starting her ascent. Lucas lost sight of her when she got further up, her mud-caked boots the last he saw of her. He could hear her loud thumps from downstairs, the way she hurriedly walked to and fro from room to room without caring that she was disturbing something so ancient and sleepy. That and she could easily break something with her questionable ("I am not fat!" he imagined her screeching) weight.

You drive me nuts, he thought bitterly as he followed after her, noting how some steps seemed caved in and how the rails of the stairs were splintered or completely broken. Every step he took made the stairs below him groan, so he was careful, delicately tapping the step with the balls of his feet. He didn't bother holding the rail; it shook harder the further he got up, the wood-on-wood making a hollow sound, like plastic wind chimes.

He pitied her a little. She was smart–kind of, in her own way–but still so incredibly naïve about everything. She trusted so much, she believed in so much; she thought the best of people. It truly was pathetic.

He made it upstairs and crept into the first room on his right, standing on the doorway. It was a bedroom filled with a pair of bunk beds. Between the two beds was a window with faded lace curtains, thick with dust. Dawn was there, one knee perched on the small mahogany dresser drawer between the beds. Her other foot was planted firmly on the wooden floor. Her hands were holding the curtains open as she gazed upon the outside world.

Her amusement in things was so simple – folk stories, the view from a window ... people. Why was she so interested in people? Why did she care about the bonds between people and pokémon, between people and people? What was the point of trying to get to know someone? They're bound to hurt you. You're bound to hurt them. Why do it? Why risk it?

She turned her head slightly and smiled. "I knew you'd follow, chicken," she teased. She turned back around. He watched as she arched her back, her hair draping behind her, the sunlight casting her body in its radiance.

Most people are malevolent. That neighbor down the block who used to give the best Halloween candy is now on trial for attempted murder over something so unbelievably superficial. The doctor of a pokémon center stole pokémon from the trainers who trusted him to "heal, not harm." Your best friend, who tried so hard to be the best he could be, had his spirits crushed down by a person he hadn't even met because "he was an annoying pest in the way." And that woman–your supposed mentor, that one person you should be able to trust out of anyone–just ... just threw the world onto your shoulders so she could be concerned with other things. That pathetic girl, the one so stupidly staring outside the window, would tell him that woman meant well, that the woman had faith in him, that the woman knew he was responsible and powerful and smart. Dawn would tell him that the woman trusted him one-hundred-and-one percent.

Why couldn't she see that life isn't all smiles? Why couldn't she see that people are out for themselves? Why couldn't she see that the hidden motive behind action is selfishness, not the good of the other human?

It bemused him. He hated it.

"Come here, you. This place has an awesome view of the sea. You can almost see those islands."

As he approached and stood behind her, breathing in a mixture of her sweet, flowery shampoo and dust, he couldn't help but wonder why she bothered sticking around. Try as he might to not get close to her–to be as repelling as possible, to be her antithesis, someone who she couldn't stand to be around–she was still here. And she still _cared_ for him.

(Granted, he had only been back in the area for three weeks or so. That surely couldn't be enough time to fully repulse a person, right?)

He wouldn't do the same for her. He couldn't care for her. Things are better off that way. She needed to grow up.

The sea met the sky in glorious shades of blue, two vastly different things that looked like one individual piece sewed together. One was stable, the other dependent on wind and gravity. There were the islands, green and brown beacons that stood sturdy in the ocean's flailing waves. He figured there was symbolism (everything is symbolic if you try), but his thoughts were on other things. On her. Goddammit.

"One is Fullmoon. The other is Newmoon," she said, her body rocking back and forth slightly, her hair brushing against his crossed arms. "I forget that other one near it." She pointed, smudging the already dirty glass. "Named after a metal, I think."

"Iron," he replied.

"That's it." He saw her smile in the reflection. "Why do people go there?"

"Training," he answered. "I went there for training."

"I think I read something about them in my myths book." She patted her bag hanging from her shoulder. "I'll look when we're back at the library. Wanna leave now?"

"Yeah."

She dropped her knee and stood back on her two feet, twisting around to face the boy and looked him up and down. Bags were under his eyes. His posture was slouched. His clothes were wrinkled. He looked so ... tired. "I'm ... sorry, Lucas." She had no idea why she was apologizing. It just felt like the right moment to say it.

Of course he would ask, his head slightly tilted: "For what?"

"For ... I dunno. I just noticed how tired you look. I mean, just when you were about to leave for that battling thing after doing all of Rowan's work ... well, you know. I know you just want to have relax." Her nose wrinkled. "I know you don't really like me."

He stared at a few seconds. "I never said that," he said slowly, carefully.

"No, but I know I'm not your most favorite person in the world either." She gave him a weepy grin, forced and sympathetic. "So I'm sorry. And thank you. For staying, I mean."

Another awkward, "Yeah," came out of Lucas's mouth after a few seconds of contemplative silence.

Never underestimate silence. It says so much without saying anything at all. For Lucas, it told the person he was talking to how awkward he felt ... which he was most of the time. In other instances, it was a forewarning of things to come. The tension in the air, the shallow breaths … Your sight somehow becomes clearer. All sounds are magnified.

And as her face came closer to his, her once sticky, lip-glossed lips now dry (though there were still remnants of glitter), he couldn't help but notice how freaking loud his heartbeat was. Could she hear that? He noticed how her head tilted slightly to the right, her eyes starting to close. Why was his head doing the same? Why was she leaning in?

Did time suddenly slow down?

What was going on?

"What." Lucas quickly took a step back, making Dawn open her eyes, snap back, and regain her composure. What a stupid thing to say. What did that even mean, what?

The two stood there in silence for a few seconds, quietly reflecting on what the heck almost happened. For once it was Lucas who broke the awkward silence.

"Library?" he asked.

The look of disappointed she had last night flashed across her face again, and she blinked, and it was gone. "Yeah," she said, once again uncharacteristically quiet. She gave him a weird face, something he couldn't really place a finger on–kind of worried, curious, and disgusted at the same time–and brushed past him, her shoulder hitting his, making him move back a bit. "Let's go."

**. . .**

She should have known darn better than that. You spend so much time studying a guy, and you know he doesn't like you (at least in the way you like him), but you, being the stupid girl that you are, think otherwise. You think, for some split second in a moment of weakness, that he's going to kiss you back. Dawn, what the heck? You just ... you just tried to _kiss_ him, didn't you? Are you insane? What good would that do you? Oh, my god. You're ... oh, my god. But he was going to kiss back! You saw it, the way he leaned in, too, before quickly pulling away, alarmed. Isn't that more important?

She refused to look up from her book, the setting sun her reading lamp. The concrete was the only way she could tell if she was going to walk into anything. She guessed Lucas would say something but–

Oh, my god, you just tried to kiss him. Idiot!

The concrete underfoot changed from plain gray speckled with dry gum to cobblestone that felt pleasant underneath the soles of her boots. They were approaching the library (she could hear the water fountains that decorated the outside of the building). She heard the glass doors opening and someone walking past them. She felt the cold of the air conditioner mix in with the warmer autumn heat around her. She smelled the distinct scent of aged books with thick, yellowing paper in them. Ah, the library. A place of solace, quiet. A place to get away from your thoughts–

Dawn, why the heck did you do that? She mentally smacked herself in the forehead. Repeatedly.

At least the book was interesting. As they entered the library (she noted the rough welcoming mat followed by the library's polished wooden floors from underneath the book), she started to re-read that one myth she told Lucas earlier.

He almost kissed back, right?

She had to look up from her book, but only slightly, to make sure she didn't trip over her feet while climbing up the stairs. Lucas (oh, god, she made things more awkward between them now. Good job, Dawn) held back and let the girl climb up first, one hand lightly sliding up the handrail and her other hand held out flat so she could balance the open book on it. They skipped past the second floor and then the third before finally stopping on the fourth. The books Lucas (god, you're such an idiot for doing that, Dawn!) had pulled out were still on the table sitting in its nice, neat stack. She felt him move from behind her before walking past to take his regular seat, the wooden chair on the right. She let her eyes wander up, watching as he took off his backpack and hung it around the chair's back before plopping himself in the seat. And then ...

Siiiiigh.

Okay, so she over exaggerated. Big deal. Still, the boy's sigh made her roll her eyes. "Look," she said, "I'm sorry for that, too. Maybe I just wanted to create a situation in which saying 'sorry' was applicable."

He said nothing to her obviously sarcastic comment as he twisted his body to open his backpack, pulling out the old red notebook he dragged around with him everywhere. The familiar sound of pages flipping filled the air. She watched as he pulled a pencil from his pocket, tapping it in the familiar beat he did yesterday. Two quick taps, then a pause, then another tap. Repeat.

Dawn tentatively walked to her seat to the left of Lucas, placing the myths book delicately on the table. "Do you not want to talk about it?"

"Not talk about what?" He looked up and raised an eyebrow.

It caught her off guard. "What just happened ...?" she said.

"Not really." He shrugged. "It's not important."

Not important. Right. That's what she was to him. She frowned. "Well, I'm glad you're not ..." How could she phrase it? "... Bothered."

"Yep." His head went back down, continuing to flip through the pages of his notebook until he found the next blank sheet. He dug into the back pocket of his jeans this time and pulled out a red, square device. A pokédex, she noted, as he pressed the center button to open the device and reveal the shiny screen. He touched the screen and flicked his finger up. A series of quiet beeps followed.

It was so sudden, and she didn't expect it. All she worked for came crashing back down the square one. Three weeks of trying to reestablish a friendship was just ... gone.

"Anything I can do?" she asked helpfully.

"You can be quiet," was his familiar answer followed by the familiar smirk. He didn't look up, though.

Wish granted. She didn't reply and instead stared at the book, skipping over the myth her book was open to and toward the analysis at the bottom of the page. Get that stupid kiss–or almost kiss or whatever it was–out of your head. Concentrate.

_Fullmoon Island and Newmoon Island are considered to be parallels to each other not only geographically but within legend, too. It is rumored that two legendary pokémon reside on each island. Cresselia, a pokémon that appears to be more active during the crescent moon phases (or is at least symbolized as such) supposedly makes home in Fullmoon Island, though there is no evidence to support this. The "pitch-black beast," as the myth describes, most likely belongs to cresselia's counterpart, a dark-type named Darkrai. It is told that he is the most powerful during the new moon phase, thus ..._

Wait. Darkrai?

Dar is watching me, she remembered. And then it clicked in her head.

"Darkrai is watching me," she said out loud to no one, though Lucas heard her. She felt his gaze on her, so she snapped her head up and looked back. "Darkrai is watching me," she repeated, eyes wide. "It's gotta be darkrai, Lucas. I know it."

He gave her that same look from earlier. How slight his eyes rolled in their sockets and the nose flare that held back his sigh. "And what makes you think that?" he murmured.

"Well, the myths book–"

"Exactly."

"Lucas, what else–"

"It's not darkrai," he said firmly. She noticed that his fingers wrapped tighter around his pencil, his fingernails digging into the wood. "No one has seen darkrai in decades. There is very little research on it."

"Of course there isn't because the myth says that it's active when the new–"

"Dawn." He didn't raise his voice nor did he sound annoyed, but the simple single-syllable pronunciation of her name made her stop talking.

Dawn frowned, fingers lightly resting on the pages of her book. "Why don't you believe me? You believed me earlier about that new moon thing I read. Even if the myth isn't true, surely it's based on _something_ that is true."

"It's just not." Lucas stared down at his pokédex.

"Can't you just–"

"Stop." He curled his toes in his sneakers to fight back the agitation building up inside himself.

"But look, Lucas." Goddamn she was determined. "It says here that darkrai is powered by the new moon, and he's a dark type, and Lane. Remember what Lane was saying in his sleep? 'Dar is watching me.' That could be him trying to say 'darkrai,' Lucas. And look at this part!" She used her pointer finger to keep track of where she was reading. "'Darkrai is rumored to be fueled by nightmares.' It makes perfect sense."

"No, it doesn't." He slammed his pencil down and glared at Dawn. "Listen to yourself. 'Rumors.' 'Myth.' Do you not get how stupid you sound right now and how pathetic it is to resort to what most likely are tales told to children because, for some goddamn reason or another, we can't find the solution to what's wrong with Eldritch's kid? It's not helping that you keep stopping me to tell your little riddle that you found to be '_soooo_' interesting–" She looked about ready to kill him when he mocked her, her face in a scowl. "–and it certainly isn't helping Lane. Myths explain nothing except how unexplainable something is. People form myths, believe in them, _research_ them, because they are too lazy to find the source of truth. The fathom any freaking reason so they can direct their fear toward _something_. So stop it, for Arceus' sake. You're not helping. I don't need you."

What was weird was that it was this little rant that finally got her. Forget him trying to ignore her for the past three weeks, then trying to brush her aside and treat her like useless crap the day before, then being a complete smart-ass to her last night, and then pulling away from her trying to kiss him less than thirty minutes ago. It was this, his little "myth on myths" (if that's not ironic in itself), that got her to stare at him bewilderedly, widen her eyes, and then, subsequently, cry.

Hell, that little "snap" of his wasn't even entirely directed toward her. She caused it, sure, but it wasn't toward her.

He didn't say anything as she scooted the chair back angrily, tears angrily building up in her eyes, as she swiped her bag off the table. He didn't even look up from his notebook when she stomped off toward the staircase and half-walked, half-ran, down them. There was no time for that. He had plenty of other things to occupy his mind. Dawn couldn't be one of them.


	10. Chapter Ten

Common sense tells me that I should be mad at myself. Or guilty. Or both.

I'm not.

Possible ability: Run away – enables sure get away.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

Nighttime is a time of solace. It is where you put all the stress from the day into a tight, neat thought and look over it, put away on a shelf, and _try_ to forget about it, only to take it down, look over it again, get annoyed, put it to the side, turn your back to it, but continue to think about it even if you don't want to.

It was a confusing state, Lucas noted, his mind in a constant shuffle between articles on pokémon comatose and the stupid brat that ran off on him. No matter what he wanted to do, which was to go home and get lost in pokédex data under the flannel covers of his bed, some sort of invisible glue kept his butt cheeks planted firm in his seat. It felt like there was a magnet in his hand that was stuck to an opposing magnet in the book's page. It was like a tiny alarm clock beeping "WHAT DID YOU DO, WHAT DID YOU DO, CUCKOO!" in his head. He wanted to flip the book over and repel it away. He wanted to smash his head in with the flat of his palm.

Okay, not really.

Was it guilt he was feeling, that twisted, knotted feeling in his stomach? Was it this that made his breath shallow, his mind race, his brow lightly sweat? Was this why he couldn't go home? He felt, dare he say, _bad_ for what he said earlier?

He scooted back, lifting his legs on the table and crumpling pages of his notebook beneath his calves. He looked toward the window. Black. The glass was starting to frost over near the edges. It is late, he mused, and cold. He took off his hat and threw it onto the table only for it to slip over the edge and fall to the floor. Where did she go? Why did he care? And goddamn, what the hell is wrong with this kid?

He leaned his head back, letting out a yawn while staring at the fluorescent lights above. He snapped his head forward back toward the desk, the wooden panels under him groaning tiredly. He contemplated. He was lost. He had no idea where to go, what to turn to. There was nothing he could use to connect to Lane's state? No other cases? Nothing?

Near his feet was Dawn's book. That myths book. Pardon, that stupid myths book. It was open to the same page she left it on. If he squinted, he could make out the small text from here. Darkrai, darkrai, blah, blah, blah. There was a small sketch of the dark-type on the upper left page. He pulled his legs off the table and sat up properly. And then, again because of the stupid magnets in his hands, he reached forward for the book only for logic to step in heroically and block him from doing the evil deed, making him pull his hand back to the nape of his neck.

"Psh," was all he could muster, wiggling his cold fingers against the warmth of his neck.

It'll do you no good, said Logic.

But what harm will it do? questioned Guilt.

Don't. There's no point in it.

But what if you learn something?

You won't. You know that. We both know that.

He imagined Logic glaring at a sheepish Guilt.

With his hands tucked in the warm crevice of his stinky armpits, Lucas leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, letting out another yawn. His head soon followed, collapsing into his folded arms. He could feel the coldness from the air conditioner enter the opening of his t-shirt, creating goosebumps on his chest.

When you're finally able to lock away that tight package of thought, you're awarded with sleep. Or, at the very least, a half-dazed state where real life merges into something dream-like. You start to envision what you want to happen, or what you expect is going to happen sooner or later. He kept envisioning Dawn walking back in, sitting next to him. She would, while his head was still down, pull that stupid myths book in front of her, flip through the pages, and when he finally looked up, she'd give him one of those smiles that made him feel uncomfortable. He kept hearing noises – feet pounding, chair legs scraping, pencils tapping, pages flipping, but he knew it was all in the imagination.

Now to figure out what category to shuffle that particular thought in ...

He pulled his head up a bit to look at the bulky blue pokétch strapped to his left wrist. Almost eight o'clock. Holy hell. Had he been here that long? What was he doing?

You should look for Dawn, said Guilt.

She's fine, argued Logic. She's fourteen years old. If she can't take care of herself by now, then all hope is lost.

But imagine if something did happen to her, replied Guilt. Could you live with it?

Depends, replied Logic.

For example, what happens if she runs into that same bibarel? Wouldn't that be ironic? said Humor with a chuckle.

That's not funny, muttered Guilt, nor ironic. And who invited you into this conversation?

Yeah, butt out, chimed in Logic.

No, you butt out! yelled Humor.

Stop the maaaaadness! sung the rarely heard Drama.

Lucas sat up and rubbed at his temples. "Why does Drama have an opera voice?" he murmured, bending over to scoop his hat off the floor. He brushed the top of it for dust before throwing it back on his head, letting it sit crookedly. That stupid myths book caught the corner of his eye again. It taunted him. Read me. What are you, chicken? C'mon. You want me. You know I'm in your head.

He looked back and forth between his notebook and that stupid myths book. His notebook was glaring at him. If you touch it, warned his notebook, I'm not going to be your friend.

"Why do I keep filling in voices for things?"

Why not? his notebook replied.

He shook his head and closed his notebook (he imagined muffled groans) and, with hesitant fingers, reached forward for the book – er, that stupid myths book. The pages felt old and dusty beneath his fingertips, though it couldn't be older than a few years. The print was small, the spacing narrow. How Dawn didn't strain her eyes reading this, he didn't know.

"Darkrai," he read out loud, "the pitch-black pokémon. Folklore has that on moonless nights, this pokémon ..."

**. . .**

He turned twelve today. Veilstone City wasn't much of a city for a kid to celebrate his birthday in. He was too young to gamble at the Game Corner and shopping at a department store could only amuse someone for so long. At least he was here instead of some forgotten dirt trail.

But still, he thought, hands shoved deeply inside the pockets of his jeans, it sucks being alone on your birthday. He raised his head slightly, the brim of his cap protecting his eyes from the bright rays of sunshine. It sucks being alone period. He needed the break, though – no, his pokémon needed the break; they had worked so hard for so long. It would be nice to relax and maybe buy a small cake to celebrate his birthday with. Tomorrow he would run back to the chaotic world of pokémon battling. He was really getting into the whole pokémon battling thing. It wasn't about the flashy moves, or the glory that comes with winning. So many styles. So many moves. So many techniques. So many ... pokémon. (Yes, really.) All the different outcomes piqued his interest. What if this trainer used this move first? What is that pokémon was of an adamant nature instead of a timid one? Would a different ability help?

Ick. It wasn't the time to think of that. It's cake time! But where to buy cake ...?

He wandered about the city aimlessly though his eyes were observant. The cheery activity of Main Street was replaced with the eerie shrieking of whistling wind between tall, shiny buildings. He could hear the traffic of downtown and their meaningless honks and screeching, but none of that was here ... wherever he was. The business district, he assumed, slowing down to take a look at his surroundings. Most of the buildings were, well, tall and rectangle. However, one building across the street had its entrance covered in bushy but spiky planters. That's no way to grab attention.

Or maybe it was. Lucas looked back and forth for cars before darting across the street toward the building. He tucked his fingers into the palms of his hands, the leather of his gloves stretching over his knuckles, and tried to push the thick branches away to get a better view. The building looked kind of old from what he could make out. It had no windows. Maybe it was a warehouse? Oh, who cares? He wanted cake. Chocolate cake. He kicked it up a notch.

He stepped back, repositioning his hands inside the warmth of his pockets, and started to walk toward the corner. He heard something: the hurried footsteps of someone's shoes slapping against the concrete. The sound got louder the closer he got to the corner, and before he knew it, a girl, her eyes wide, would have rammed him down had he not quickly stepped to the side. The girl turned around and murmured a quick, "Sorry!" before running in the opposite direction, her hair streaming behind her. There was hesitation in her steps. She slowed down and stopped. She turned back around. Then she asked,

"Lucas?"

How do you respond to that? "Um, yes?" he replied tentatively, the corner of his mouth pulling upward so one eye was squinted.

Her eyes lit up. "You! I remember you! Remember me?" The crazy girl stepped forward with a grin that made his stomach grumble ... or maybe that was because he was hungry.

She did look familiar. He remembered the hat, some sort of beanie cap except white and girly, that was pulled over the top of her hair. "You're ..." He snapped his fingers. "You're also one of Professor Rowan's assistants. Right?"

She nodded eagerly. "Yeah. Dawn. It's nice to see you again."

"Yeah, you too," he replied immediately. During his journey, Lucas learned how to spit out after certain phrases out of politeness. He never really meant it, but maybe he did this time. Dawn was under the same apprenticeship that he was. That had to count for something, right?

Lucas looked up, admiring one of the tall buildings, the corner of it glinting in the sunlight. "What are you doing here anyway?"

The girl's smile started to fade. She stepped closer. "You promise not to tell the professor?" she whispered. He didn't know why she bothered whispering. No one was around.

He nodded.

"I think my pokédex got stolen." Her face cringed, her nose wrinkling. "Of course my data is backed up on a computer back at the laboratory, but those devices aren't cheap, you know?"

He shifted the contents of his right pocket to feel for the square device that was currently pressed between his thigh and an empty pokéball. "Stolen? How?"

"I'm not sure. I was eating lunch at the department store, and I had my pokédex clipped to my bag's strap." She lifted the yellow strap where some sort of black hooking device was clipped to it. "You know, for easy access?" She rolled her eyes at this. "Anyway, I hung my bag over the back of the chair. I did notice some ... some guy with a blue bowl cut walk back and forth behind me a few times. I think he did it. I guess I should have been suspicious but ... eh."

"Why are you here if it happened at the department store?" he asked, pulling his hands out of his pockets along with a few coins that clattered to the ground. He bent over to pick them up before they could roll into the bushes. "Wouldn't you be better off ... well, not here?"

"Yeah, but I think that guy was ..." she trailed off, twirling a finger around a few strands of hair. "I think they're called Team Galactic. They've been all over the news lately for something. Dunno if you've been watching the news since you've been all over the place."

"Team Galactic," he repeated. It sounded familiar.

"They're known for that blue hair that I talked about earlier, and they all kind of dress alike. Uniforms, I guess," Dawn continued. "Anyway, their headquarters are around here. I figure if that kid with the bowl cut took my 'dex, he has to be there somewhere." She stared at him, eyes curious. "You busy?"

Hungry, he thought. Must get cake.

"Think you could help me out?" she continued.

"I ..." He was about to say no, tell her that he had things to do, people to see, pokémon to heal, any excuse he could muster so he could eat delicious slices of cake, and that he could help her later if she still needed help–_maybe_, if she was lucky–but her eyes suddenly snapped up towards his and quickly swept back and forth, reading his face. And like that, a light hope disappeared into heavy disappointment. "Yeah, okay," he finally answered. The look on her face made his stomach twist in a funny way. "Why not?"

She squealed happily. "Goody!" She grabbed at his wrist and pulled him down the sidewalk. "C'mon! The headquarter is this way!"

**. . .**

"According to one theory, Mt. Coronet is where the Sinnoh region began," said the man.

Lucas wasn't really paying attention. He was too busy staring at the strange man who appeared out of nowhere in his long, black trench coat and fedora. Plus he had other issues to worry about, like peeing. God, he had to pee. He managed to finally find an exit to this stupid mountain after a hour or so, and of course some strange man had to come along and tell him some boring ass story about Sinnoh. All the small ponds and streams of water weren't helping alleviate his bathroom situation. Damn you, pleasant tinkling noise.

He struggled, slightly bouncing back and forth with his thighs pressing together tightly.

"In a newly created world ... A world where only time flowed and space expanded," the man began, "there should have been no strife."

Lucas nodded, legs still squirming, teeth biting the inside of his cheek. He had no idea what this guy was talking about. Mom said when dealing with the crazy, you let them do their thing and leave as soon as you have the chance.

"But what became of that world?"

Did he expect him to answer that?

"Um, lack of bathrooms?" he said half-jokingly, half-seriously.

"Humans," the man growled, eyes narrowing, focusing on something behind Lucas's head. "Because the human spirit is weak and incomplete, strife has appeared. This world is ruined by it."

He didn't get it. Without human spirit or humans period, he wouldn't even be here, right? And holy crap, did he just pee a little? He brought his closed fists to his face, digging his knuckles into his cheek, and bit his tongue lightly.

"I find the state of things to be deplorable ..." he trailed off in the same venomous tone from before. He held the brim of his fedora tightly and lowered it over his eyes. "Pardon me. Stand aside."

Lucas didn't bother going after the odd man and his odder ramblings as he brushed past him. Although he wondered why the man bothered to stop him on his way out to speak about his feelings on the "horrible human spirit" (or whatever he said), he tried to push it out of his mind. He had encountered some weird people on his adventure–trainers that crawl alongside their pokémon, trainers that eat pokémon food, trainers in general, really–but that man ... that man had to be the weirdest.

Right. Bathroom. Right.

He darted out of the cave, running pigeon-toed.

**. . .**

"This cave painting. It's always been described this way," said the woman, pressing a hand against the stone panels and dragging her hand down lightly, feeling the bumps and the grooves.

"Uh huh," replied the fourteen year old behind her. She didn't bother looking back. She knew the boy was slouching. She knew he was rolling his eyes. She knew he was trying to focus on anything other than what she was talking about. It was just the child's way. She had no idea why he acted like this around her. When they first met, he was such a sweet boy, but after the entire Cyrus fiasco, the poor thing had changed. He was so ... cold. Maybe it was a stage. The transition from simple trainer to champion of a region was a big jump. Maybe it overwhelmed him. Different people react differently to different things.

"The light in the center represents either dialga or palkia appearing at the Spear Pillar," she continued thoughtfully. "The three lights around it were thought to be uxie, mesprit and azelf."

"Fantastic," the boy replied dully. She heard him scuff the flooring of the sacred cave with his foot.

"May I continue?" she replied back coolly, turning her head and brushing her long strands of blonde hair out of her face. She raised an eyebrow, her gray eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the ruins. Her hand remained on the stone panel.

"Whatever," was the boy's blunt reply as he crossed his arms and shifted his weight to his right leg.

She turned back around, the folds of her long, black coat sweeping around her legs. "But, then, I realized that there may be another way of interpreting this. Could this triangle of lights actually represent a different trio? Could they be dialga, palkia, and giratina instead? And the large light at their center. Does it represent something else? Could it be what created this world of ours?"

"Cynthia, why are you telling me this? It's over," he remarked bitterly. "I don't care."

"May I continue for a little bit longer?" she asked. She didn't bother turning her head this time, focusing on the picture.

Lucas sighed. "Fine."

"Thank you for listening to my theory." She did mean that, somewhat. He should know, after all, even if he didn't want to hear it. "Do you know of the ancient plates they find all over Sinnoh? One of them had this engraved on it. 'Two beings of time and space set free from the Original One.' I think this quote, too, points to the presence of another pokémon. A pokémon even more powerful than dialga or palkia. Does this sound plausible to you?"

There was a pause before he answered, "I guess."

"I'm not quite sure how giratina fits into this scheme of things, but ..." She paused.

Another sigh. "But ...?"

"It's said that in the Distortion World, neither time nor space were stable."

"Cyrus told me that. Why are you tell me things I already know ... and fixed? Kinda."

"I think that tells us something about giratina, the only pokémon there." She ignored Lucas's snide comments and focused on her theory. "It must be have been as powerful as dialga and palkia, the rulers of time and space. In some way, though, giratina has to have a power opposites of theirs."

"Cyrus told me this, too. They're parallels. DNA strands. Without one, the other cannot exist."

It was Cynthia that sighed this time. "I'm sorry this is so long." She walked along the wall, her fingers brushing the dirt off the panels. "May I say one last bit?"

"Fine."

She smiled wistfully to herself, her eyes creasing at the edges. "A long time ago," she began, "I wondered what sort of person painted this. Dialga's Roar of Time ... Palkia's Spacial Rend ... To the people back then, those pokémon really must have appeared to rule over time and space. Seeing them must have shaken the people to their very core." She felt the heels of her shoes sink into a particularly wet patch of mud, but she didn't care. "This painting represents those feelings of awe, wonder, and everything else. It passed that memory to countless people, eventually becoming a myth ..." At this, she turned around to face the boy who had a completely bewildered look on his face. It amused her; she finally snapped him out of his bitter state, even if it was for only a little bit. "That's what I believe as a researcher of myths."

It was silent for a while. She watched his face carefully while fiddling with the fuzzy sleeves of her jacket. It went from bewilderment, to contemplation, to more bewilderment, before finally setting on anger. Distraught. Pure, unadulterated unhappiness.

"It must be nice to be you," he murmured. He was physically shaking. "You get to observe phenomena that must have been eye-boggling but emotionally and physically draining from a safe distance, and in retrospect, all for the sake of 'preserving history.' All you get to do is look at it from someone else's perspective, and somehow people think you're an expert on it? Awe? Wonder? Those people were _scared_, Cynthia. They had no idea what was going on, or what to do, or if anything was going to be okay in the end, and you think _you_ have the right to say how they felt without being there? Without having a first person account?"

She simply gazed back into his hurt-filled eyes as he raised his head. Her right hand raised itself to brush the blonde bangs away from her eyes. "You can try to imagine, you had the chance to figure out what these people felt – no, what _I_ felt a few months ago, but you never came after me. So, no, Cynthia. I don't appreciate you dragging me here while I'm trying to goddamn figure out this whole 'pokémon champion' thing that you, for some reason, don't really want to help me with either." He let out a laugh, short and resentful.

She raised an eyebrow, amused a little. The slight change in her facial expression seemed to anger the boy more. "I'm trying, Lucas," she said calmly. "I'm trying to help you understand why I didn't–"

"Stop it!" he yelled, cheeks flushed. His voice echoed in the tiny but well-kept chamber. "You keep telling me that you understand, that you get me, that you know what it's like, but you don't! You keep relying on stories, on pictures, on myth, but how accurate are they? How can you really know what's going on from just that? You just ... can't. I don't get how you can do that. People's memories alter throughout time. How can you rely on something that is so fickle?"

"Mmm." She pursed her lips in response. She wanted to really respond–badly, too–but it was better off if she didn't. "I think I let myself get carried away and talked for far too long. I'm sorry ... and thank you."

He let out a weird growl and opened and closed his mouth, like he wanted to say something else but couldn't. "You can do your own thing," he finally said, "and I'll do what everyone expects me to do. Like always."

She gave him a small, awkward smile. "Let's meet again, Lucas."

**. . .**

As he sat in the lobby of the pokémon center waiting for his pokémon to heal, he couldn't help but reflect on what Cyrus told him. It was disturbing.

_"I see. You must be the trainer I've been hearing about. The foolhardy one that's been trying to stand up to Team Galactic."_

All he wanted to do was the right thing ... whatever that meant.

He fiddled with the straw of his soda, making the bubbles from the carbonation pop. He didn't really understand Cyrus and his ideas. Heck, he barely understood what he was suppose to do. He knew that whatever he was against was something bad.

It all started in Jubilife, if he remembered correctly. He was heading back from Oreburgh, and he saw some freak in a space suit harassing his mentor. He wasn't sure why Professor Rowan wasn't able to take care of the freak himself; he was, after all, an excellent trainer. And then, a few weeks after that, some little girl came running into Floaroma, screaming about the Valley Windworks being taken over by the same freaks.

He supposed it was his fault that he got wrapped up into the entire mess. He didn't have to help the little girl, but no one else seemed to have the guts to investigate. It was this event, he believed, that caught the attention of Team Galactic. It made him something of a threat even though he only had a couple of badges at the time. And all the while he still didn't know who they were, what they wanted, or why they were here.

So when Cyrus told him that he was "the foolhardy one that's trying to stand up to Team Galactic," it kind of ... offended him. That wasn't his mission. He didn't want to be a hero. He didn't want to vanquish the evil off the face of Sinnoh. It was just that no one else was doing anything. They kept telling him, "This is bad, Lucas! Someone has to do something!" ... but they themselves wouldn't do anything. It felt like he had to step in. He got so deep into it that people started to expect him to stop it without being told to do it, and he already knew that they wouldn't do anything about it anyway.

It shouldn't be this way. Thirteen year olds shouldn't be here, hoping for the best for the pokémon that almost died in battle against some man with a god complex. The most he should be worried about was whether or not he'd make it into the pokémon league.

He placed his drink on the floor and doubled over, resting his head in his hands, his fingers digging into the top of his hat. The ordeal and its aftermath left him sick it; his gag reflex was agitated and sore. Salty saliva was building up on the insides of his cheek and dripping down to the corners of his mouth, some of it escaping. He slurped it back up, provoking the back of throat even more.

He didn't know. Maybe he wouldn't mind being forced into these situations if he didn't feel so alone and used. People expected too much of him and do nothing for him in return. Why did he bother to keep pleasing them?

"Lucas, you may now see your pokémon," he heard on the speaker system.

He got up, leaving his drink on the floor but picking up the backpack he placed next to him. As he swung his bag around his shoulder, another thought formed in his head.

_"Such emotions are but mere illusions. And, like all illusions, they fade over time until death banishes them forever. That is why I have abandoned all emotions as useless sentimentality. But that doesn't matter. I doubt you will ever understand my position."_

Cyrus was a creepy man.

He walked down one of the barren hallways of the center, feet slapping against the plastic tile, and stopped in front of a wide window. He stared at his tired, slouched reflection before peering inside. Inside were rows of beds with pokémon sleeping. His riolu was one of them, the third bed to the right, hooked up to some weird, square, mechanical machine with lots of buttons that occasionally flashed. Even from here, the pain in his pokémon's face. From under the sheets, its tiny body was squirming. It was just a runt – it shouldn't have been in such a hardcore battle. But he needed all the help he could get.

He reflected on his position. He enjoyed being helpful. He enjoyed making others happy. He tried to be the most caring, compassionate, understanding kid because that's how Mom raised him. Rewards come to good boys, she told him.

What had he been rewarded with?

Quite grimly, he realized he would be better off if he did understand Cyrus's position a little better.

**. . .**

"...Thanks," she said meekly, holding her pink pokédex in the flat of her palm. She used her other glove-covered hand to rub the grimy fingertips off the glossy casing. Her piplup hopped at her heels and cheered, chirping his name repeatedly.

Lucas scratched his forehead, watching as the kid with the blue bowl cut retreated down the street. "No problem. Glad I could help." He returned Grotle back into his pokéball and gave it a smile before re-clipping it to his belt.

Saying goodbye to someone you don't really know was something Lucas always found awkward, especially when he wanted to leave in a hurry to get cake. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, um ... It was nice seeing you?" Why did he say that as a question? Dumb. "I'll see you later?" Another question. Great.

The girl clipped the pokédex back onto her bag's strap with a satisfying click. "Thanks again." Dawn smiled as she scooped up her piplup, petting his head with her free hand. She flicked out a pokéball and returned the penguin in a beam of red light.

He gave her a nod and turned on the balls of his feet, heading back in the direction he came from. He took a few steps, careful not to step on any of the jagged cracks (for the sake of his mother's back) or the dry, black bubblegum (because stepping on gum is gross period). Time for cake!

She let out a call after a few steps: "Is today maybe ... your birthday, Lucas?"

He turned his head, looking over his shoulder. How would she know that? "It is ...?" he answered slowly, confusingly, questionably, to the weirdly-phrased query.

She giggled. "Congratulations, Lucas! And many more happy returns!"

"Er, thanks."

She ran after him, grabbing his arm and wrapping it around her own. "I am sorry I made you stick around to help pathetic me." Her eyes caught his, and it left him breathless for a second. "Come on. I'll make it up to you. I'll get all of us cake to celebrate, and I'll throw you an awesome birthday party!" She began to walk forward, causing Lucas to walk forward also. "What do you say?"

He stared at her, listening to their steps as they hit the sidewalk at the same time. They walked around the corner, facing the sunlight. His eyes squinted. He felt a tug at his arm.

"Well?" she questioned again. "My treat! It'll be fun!"

Here he was, alone on his birthday with no calls, no letters, nothing, and some girl that barely knew him wanted to spend time with him? _And_ pay for the cake?

"Chocolate cake?" he asked hopefully.

"Whatever you want, Birthday Boy!" Dawn replied, patting his hand gently.

"I'd like that, Dawn," he answered. "Um ... Thanks."

She smiled wider. "Anytime."

**. . .**

Lucas drifted out of his thoughts and put that stupid myths book back down on the table. He had to admit (he guessed) that maybe this myth is onto something. Maybe you couldn't take what it said at face value but ...

"But why?" he asked to no one in particular.

The stupid myths book didn't really explain why Darkrai did what it did ... er, if it did it anyway. It is a dark type, so it doesn't really need a motive; it does whatever it can just because it can. According to myth, it has the ability to make people see horrific nightmares once it lulls them to sleep. Data from other sources told him that Darkrai has a move set that consists of sleep-inducing attacks. It did make sense ...

"But why?" he repeated, this time in a firmer tone.

It's the most powerful during new moon phases – or when it's "moonless." The timing matched up, just like Dawn said. He tapped the eraser side of his pencil against the table, making it bounce. "But ... why?" Why pick on Lane? Why lull him into a sleep that lasted days? Did Harbor Inn have something to do with it? Did he gain energy somehow from it?

Is it something like Mega Drain? he thought. Maybe Darkrai is using Lane as a source of energy. Since Lane is just a kid, he would be an easier target.

Lucas leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Can Darkrai do something like that, but with his opponent sleeping? Or is it the nightmares that he's interested in?" He thought back to Lane. His parents told him that he was stable, albeit the whole sleeping thing. Maybe it wasn't draining energy from Lane. "But why do it?"

He turned the page and focused on the illustration before him, exampling the sort of nightmares that Darkrai would (allegedly) broadcast in the minds of his prey. Bones, skulls, streams of blood ... cliché nightmare things. Not everyone dreams or fears this stuff. What would an eight year old dream of?

Of course – becoming a pokémon trainer. That's what he dreamed of at that age. It made him grin, but he frowned soon after. If they really are nightmares, then it must be the complete opposite, like not getting your license or ... something.

He flipped the page again, but there was nothing more on Darkrai. That couldn't be it ... could it? Even the storytellers couldn't think of a solution to their made-up problem?

You need a break, he thought, yawning again, running his tongue over his teeth.

No, you need to find Dawn, said Guilt.

"Yeah, yeah ..." He rolled his eyes. Quickly shoving both his notebook and that stupid myths book into his bag, the boy got up, almost falling over since both feet seemed to have fallen asleep during his reading. He stumbled over to the staircase, grabbing onto the greasy metal handrail to stabilize himself.

"You're here awfully late," said the librarian at the front desk as Lucas stumbled to the ground floor. She looked up from the book she was reading and pulled her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose to get a better look at the champion. "I thought you would have left by now."

"Have you seen Dawn?" he asked, ignoring the librarian's earlier statement and heading over to her. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward a bit.

"Dawn?" the librarian repeated. "Oh, that one girl you came with earlier? I haven't seen her since she left hours ago, dear. I remember her looking upset, though. How come?"

"No reason," he murmured, shifting his eyes to the side. "Thanks."

Lucas darted toward the exit, the automatic doors sliding open, and was greeted by the cool night air. He adjusted the straps of his backpack around his shoulders and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. He looked left, then right, then left again, glancing at the marble water fountain. He stared at the statue on top, an ampharos whose tail was lit up and changed different colors every few seconds.

"Where could she have gone?" he asked the wind. "Home?"

"You looking for me?"

Lucas turned his head quickly, his neck whiplashing painfully, and saw the girl sitting on a bench nearby, her legs tightly crossed. Next to her thigh was a cup that was slightly wobbling in the wind. Cringing with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, Lucas made his way over and stood in front of the girl. He didn't look at her but the street post above her head, the light catching his eye and making them glint. "Yeah, I was," he finally muttered after a few seconds of silence, dropping his hand and letting it swing by his side. A particularly strong bout of wind blew, followed by the loud crashing of a wave hitting the cliff, sending up ocean spray that made both researchers shiver.

Dawn used the ends of her scarf as makeshift sleeves, wrapping them around her lower arms and holding the frays between her fingers. "What a stupid idea to come here without a jacket," she murmured, her legs trembling. She used the top of her left boot to rub against the back of her right leg, trying to generate warmth to her lower half.

Lucas pulled his hat down firmer over his head. "Why are you still here, then, if it's so cold?"

"I don't know. I didn't know Canalave was this ridiculously cold."

"Try going to Snowpoint then. Going over there told me a few things about being prepared for any type of weather." He was about to sit next to her, but she glared at him, making him snap back up. "Well?"

"Well what?" she murmured, eyes looking past him.

"Why are you here?"

"I told you. I don't know. I just am, I guess. It was nice sitting here and staring at the moon until the weather started acting up."

He paused. "Were you waiting for me?" he asked delicately.

"No," was her quick, agitated reply, frowning. She sighed. "Okay, maybe. I wanted to see if you would come after me. You kind of took a while, so I got hot chocolate and stuff." She motioned toward the cup that was now laying on it side, rolling back and forth on the wooden, flaky bench. "But, well, here you are."

"Yeah."

"Yep." Dawn turned her head to the side, staring at the lit up homes down the street. She bit her lip, trying to fight back the cold, her left boot rubbing harder into the back of her right leg.

Lucas finally built up the courage to drop his eyes from the street post and down toward the shivering girl below. "I ... I read that stu– that myths book you were carrying around lately," he said, pulling his backpack to the side and unzipping the back pocket. "I brought it with me."

This raised her eyebrow, though she kept her head pointed toward the houses, watching smoke spiral from the chimneys and dissipate with the sharp breeze.

"I think it might have something useful. I'm not going to take it word-for-word, but ... maybe it's onto something. Some of the things it says makes sense," he continued, digging around his backpack. He sat down next to her, still digging around, but Dawn refused to face him, her back turned toward him.

"I told you," she murmured.

"I know. I should have trusted you."

"I've given you no reason not to."

"Yeah," he said.

She picked up the cup rolling near her thigh and set it up straight, running a finger around the plastic rim. "I guess I did overreact," she said after a while, staring at the empty cup. "Just, you know, with earlier today–"

"Yeah."

"–plus the last few days have been pretty stressful–"

"Yeah."

"–I just ... I don't know." She tugged at her scarf and sighed. "I wanted to help you so badly, and for you to push what help I did have back in my face made me upset at both me and you. Rowan is so proud of you, Lucas. I don't know if you know that. I know he's happy for me, too, but ... I only wish you could hear the things he says about you when you're not around. I hope he says the same stuff about me when I'm not around."

Lucas gave whatever he was pulling on a final tug and successful got it out with a grunt.

"I don't know where I was going with that," she continued. "I guess I wanted you to know. I know life's been hard on you lately. I'm trying to understand what it's like to be you, but I don't think I ever will. We're not all bad, Lucas."

Dawn felt something soft and warm drape around her arms and upper torso, making her turn around to face the boy. "I know, Dawn," he replied, looking her straight in the eye, one hand still holding onto the jacket he covered her with. "And I'm sorry."

"Um ..." She looked back and forth between the jacket and Lucas who was still intensely gazing at her. "No worries, Lucas," she replied, gently touching and wrapping her own hand around Lucas's. "And thanks ... for your jacket, I mean."

"Yeah," was his reply. "Come on. I'll walk you home."

Dawn stood up and pulled the jacket over her shoulders, its length longer than her entire outfit. It was still a bit cold; the wind managed to slip into the jacket since it was so big on her. Lucas, being the mind-reading fiend that he is, comfortingly wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close, sharing his warmth.

"So you really read that book, huh?" she said, grinning, looking up at him.

"No, I read the page you left it open on," he corrected, his eyes focused on the path ahead.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to help yourself."

"If you say so."

"I'm always right, Lucas. You should just learn to deal with it."

Her smile widened at the boy's snort. As they walked, admiring the nighttime life, Dawn heard something crinkle next to her hip. She looked down to where her bag swung gently back and forth and noticed the pastry she bought earlier, still wrapped in its plastic wrapping. "You didn't eat dinner, huh?"

"Just lunch from earlier, yeah."

"Yeah, me neither. Maybe you can stay awhile and I can make us soup or something, yeah?" She used her free hand to pick up the pastry. "Anyway, I bought this earlier, but I forgot about it 'til now. Want it?"

"What is it?"

"Chocolate cake."


	11. Chapter Eleven

I'm taking a break today.

I'm also taking her out to lunch later.

Crap.

...

Type: Psychic/Bug

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

You are lost, aren't you?  
I have been watching you for a while.  
Follow me.

**. . .**

Night. Day four. Lane had a soccer game today. They didn't go, of course. Lane certainly wasn't playing, and by the time Eldritch and Aly realized what time it was, the game was already over. Eldritch sometimes helped coach. Aly sometimes baked cookies for the team. Not today. Everything ordinary, everything normal, was put on pause until this abnormality–to put it lightly and in one, neat word–was settled and solved.

All Eldritch knew now, besides his unshaven beard and bloodshot eyes, was the hospital. Once you enter through those sliding glass doors, you're greeted with the information desk where a couple of nurses or receptionists or nurse receptionists were working. Then there were multiple hallways. One hallway led to patient rooms. The other led to the E.R. Another to surgical wards. One was pediatrics. So many facets of life were contained in the hospital's hallowed halls. Life, death ... and the things in between.

Eldritch knew the cafeteria well (God, he must have gained some weight digesting all the crap he couldn't help shove down his throat) snug between the information desk and one of the gift shops that sold stuffed animals. It wasn't that he was hungry all the time, but it was somewhere to go that wasn't Lane's room but was still nearby. For a few minutes every few hours, Eldritch wasn't that troubled father worried for his son but ... nothing. He was nothing except a man staring at a jiggly cup of orange Jello.

Alyson had joined him tonight. She rarely did; she was often in the hallway on her cellphone, talking to relatives, friends, other doctors–anyone, really–and if she wasn't there, she was guaranteed to be in Lane's room, sitting. Waiting. Hoping. But she joined him tonight, a mug of coffee in front of her. It had lost its steam a long time ago. He didn't question it – er, her being here.

"I'm tired," she began as he poked his plastic spoon into his dessert. Alyson rubbed at the corner of her eyes, smudging the tips of her fingers with black eyeliner. "It feels like we've been here for years now. Did you know it's the twenty-first?"

"I know it's Monday. Does that count?"

She gave him a light but awkward laugh, staring down at her coffee cup and rubbing her eyeliner-smudged finger along the white ceramic rim. He stared at the side of the cup. "Canalave General Hospital" was what he read in the dark red print. "You're not in trouble with work for taking so many days off, are you?"

"No. They're pretty understanding about the situation. It is taking away my vacation days but ..." he trailed off. "But even if I did get in trouble, I wouldn't want to leave you and Lane alone to deal with this."

He noticed her staring at him for quite a while, almost alarmed (he thought of stantler), before snapping her head back down, wavy, brown hair falling over her face and hiding her eyes. She tucked the rogue strands behind her ears. He saw tears build up in her eyes, making watery blues more watery.

"What's wrong?" he asked tentatively, reaching across the table to place his calloused hand over Alyson's slimmer, smoother one.

Her hand retreated into the folds of her jacket at his cold touch, wiggling her fingers against her stomach. "Nothing," she replied, sniffling and shaking the tears away. "I'm just on edge over ... you know." She pointed her head up, staring at the dim fluorescent lighting. The cafeteria had closed shop for tonight, though the dining area had remained open. She sighed, switching her attention to the vending machine filled with brightly-colored snacks. "I wish this whole ordeal was over with. I wish someone knew something. Four days. Four days and we have nothing?"

"Lucas says he might be onto something," Eldritch murmured. "He's going to investigate it tomorrow. That's what he told me anyway."

"Our hope resides in another child?" she chided.

"He ain't your typical trainer, Aly. He's sharp. I trust the kid."

"I suppose I have to, too." She sighed again, picking up her spoon and dropping it delicately into her mug, letting it clink. "God, I hate this." She propped her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands, digging her fingernails into her scalp. "What did we do wrong? Could we have prevented this from happening to him?"

"These things happen, Aly," Eldritch replied, staring at the top of her fallen head.

"They shouldn't," she grumbled back. "Not to us. Not after all we've been through. Mortgages and shaky work schedules and–"

"You say it like we're the only people in the world with these problems."

"I know we're not. But we finally seem to have come to something that resembles a stable livelihood, and to have this thrown in our face after we settle in is just ... it's just bad luck. All we get is bad luck."

She lifted her head. "And I get it, Eldritch," she interrupted as Eldritch opened his mouth to speak. "I get that ... that this sort of stuff happens to everyone, but I'm always reminded about how unfair it is anyway. I'm not trying to blame anyone for our current predicament, but ... there must have been something we could have or couldn't have done. What if I didn't yell at him that one afternoon? What if I came earlier before he even got close to that inn? Or what if I talked to him about it instead? I knew he was mad at me, but I should have at least tried."

"Aly, come on. Blaming yourself isn't going to get you anywhere."

Alyson dug her fingernails into her palms, imprinting crescent-shaped marks on her skin. "Or ... was it you? Maybe you were too rough with playing with him or something."

"Blaming me won't get you anywhere either," he replied coolly, scooping up a small bit of Jello onto his spoon and slipping it in his mouth.

She ignored him, staring past his head, the low light from the vending machine reflecting in her eyes. "Maybe if you were around more, he wouldn't need to go out and try to find 'adventure.' Or maybe he wouldn't want to be so adventurous if you weren't so adventurous."

"This again?" He suppressed his urge to glare at her, channeling his energy into his grip on the plastic spoon. He heard it start to crack. "You know I have little control on when I'm shipped out and where. And I never know how long I will be out at sea."

"I know that," she snapped. "I can't help how I feel, though."

"That's always your reasoning. 'I get what you're saying but I'm going to be irrational anyway,'" he mocked while his eyes rolled, placing his spoon in his half-eaten cup of Jello. He wrapped his legs around the metal legs of the chair. "Please."

"Please, what?" she asked dryly.

"Please nothing," was his quick retort. He turned his head to the left and stared at the counter where lunch was served, school-style. Slanted glass protected the food from the people – or was it the people from the food? "What do you want me to do about it, Aly? I can't do anything about my schedule. And it hasn't bothered you before, not for a while. Why is it bothering you now?"

"It's not," she lied, drumming her long fingernails on the table. Her left eye twitched a few times.

"Really."

"Really what? I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"I just said I am."

"Well, okay."

She huffed, nose wrinkling. "If I have to tell you what my problem is _again_, then I'm not sure what the point is in telling you _again_."

Eldritch gaped for a bit but quickly regained composure. "When did you ever tell me ... anything?"

"All the time! Every time we talk!"

"Now you're just being contradictory. We don't talk about this all the time."

"You know what I mean!"

Eldritch rocked back and forth a few times in his chair out of frustration, hearing the plastic seat from his chair squeak and crack. He rubbed the sleeves of his polyester jacket against his chest. He was putting on a musical, an annoying musical of squeaking and cracking and rubbing and scratching. "Look, we both know you're here for some reason other than lecturing me about work." He stopped moving, the symphony coming to an abrupt end. The silence surrounded them with its tension. He stared her straight in the face. "So why don't you come out and say it?"

She dug her teeth lightly into her bottom lip, red lipstick tinting the tips of her front teeth as her eyes darted left, right, anywhere that avoided the vicinity of his face. He watched her hands as they played with the sleeves of her jacket, the ends of the table, before finally resting around her lukewarm cup of coffee. She let out a small sigh, inhaled sharply, then released slowly. "I'm pregnant."

He just ... stared at her after that. He heard her right, right? This wasn't a dream, a trick of the mind, right? He asked her a dumb question: "With what?"

"With a ... child?" she replied, dumbfound, blinking rapidly a few times.

The onslaught of dumb questions continued: "Is it mine?"

"For the love of Arceus, yes."

He sat back in his chair, bending the back a bit, and crossed his arms, rubbing his fingers against his chin. "Another kid ..." he said softly, slowly. "What does this mean?"

Alyson raised an eyebrow. "That we're going to be parents for the second time? That we're going to have to go through diaper duty again? That we get to wake up at three in the morning after one hour of sleep to tend to a crying baby? What do you mean by, 'What does this mean?'"

"Well, what are we going to do, Aly? We are already cramped in that house as it is. I mean, imagine our apartment a few years ago but two times as worse. We can barely afford our current lifestyle as it is – and you're bothered by me being gone for long periods of time because of work. And then we still have Lane to worry about – granted, he does want to go out on a journey once he earns his license – why am I even thinking about _that_ now when he's still in that coma or sleeping spell or whatever the hell it is?" He exhaled deeply, eyes alarmed.

"Shit," he summed up simply.

Alyson stared down at her coffee, barely making out her reflection in the brown liquid. The conversation sounded oh so familiar. "In normal families, people rejoice about pregnancies," she murmured quietly.

"It's not that, Aly. I mean, I'm hap–" He paused. "Well, I just ... I thought we were ... 'careful' this time. We both knew we couldn't afford another kid, even with my recent promotion."

"It's been eight years, Dan. Things happen."

"It's not like ... we've been ... you know." The poor sailor was fully stammering now, and if Aly looked close enough, she could see the sweat starting to form on his forehead. "We haven't ... yeah lately."

"Well, we did have 'yeah' a month or so ago. It's still early enough for it to be a possibility."

"So ..." Eldritch scrolled his eyes back and forth across the ceiling. He always wondered why most major facilities–schools, hospitals, what have you–always had those tiny holes in their tile ceilings. "You're positive you are?"

"I took a take-home pregnancy test a few days ago, and it tested negative–" She suppressed her snort as she heard Eldritch exhale loudly in relief. "–but I really think I am. Womanly intuition, I don't know. You know my luck with those tests." She sighed this time. "I scheduled an appointment with the OB/GYN tomorrow afternoon. I know you missed a bit with my pregnancy with Lane, but since you are around now, I thought you might like to find out with me."

Eldritch stared at her so she continued. "I know it's bad to think of Lane's ... 'illness' like this, but I think it's a blessing as well as a curse. Of course I want him to get out of it as soon as possible, but at the same time, it's been nice to have you around knowing that you'll be here tomorrow. You know?" Alyson released her death grip on her mug and reached out toward Eldritch, placing her hand on the table. "Are you going to say anything?" She waved her hand across Eldritch's face. "Dan?"

He didn't respond and continued to stare. At least he didn't faint this time.

"I ..." Eldritch opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again only to close it slightly, running his tongue against his bottom lip. "I ..." He grunted, shaking his head a few times before gazing into Alyson's distraught face. "Look, I know things will work out, and I will try to be there for you when you need me. I know I'm being a complete pussy–" He ignored Alyson's cringe. "–right now, and I'm sorry for that." Eldritch scooted his chair back, the metal legs scraping against the polished linoleum, and stood up, pressing his hands against the table and leaning his weight into them. "But can you just ... can you just give me a minute to process all this? I need some fresh air."

It was Alyson's turn to say, "I ..." before trailing off. She nodded. "Yeah, of course. I suppose it is getting late. I should go see Lane before heading home. I'll see you there?"

"At home? Yeah."

"Aaand ..." she looked up at him, tucking her hair behind her ear out of nervous habit, "you're coming with me tomorrow?"

He didn't ask why she asked it so breathlessly. "Yeah," he said, trying to hide the unsureness in his voice. "I'll ... see you soon."

"Yeah," she replied softly with another nod. "I'll see ya."

**. . .**

Do you know what an abyss is, child?  
It is bottomless, the gulf of chaos in the ancient cosmos.  
It is space; it is nothing but, at the same time, everything.  
It is also endless.  
Do you understand, child?  
This is before your time, of course.  
Before the Creation.  
Before intellect.  
And morality.  
Some call it hell.

**. . .**

"Why are we here tonight?" asked Lucas briskly, pocketing his hands in the folds of his jacket, shifting his head so the brim of his cap wasn't blocking his vision. "I thought we were taking a break from all of this today."

Dawn had to skip a bit to keep up with Lucas's long strides. "Well, _yeaaaah_," she replied with an eye roll, slipping her hands into the sleeves of her red pea coat to protect her nimble fingers from the nippy cold. The frays of her scarf blew past her shoulders. "But if we plan to get to Crescentmoon–"

"Fullmoon."

"–Fullmoon Island tomorrow night, we have to have _some_ idea about how to get there – ew! I think I just stepped in gum!" She immediately stopped walking and headed over to the railing, wiping the bottom of her boot against it, a disgusted look twisted on her face. Lucas headed over toward her, hands still snug in the pockets of his jacket, and looked up toward the moon, the silver glow casting his skin in a pale, peculiar light. The people of Canalave were quiet tonight, though maybe that was because of the sea. The waves were crashing loudly into the wooden pillars of the docks and sending up a light, salty, ocean spray.

Lucas was glad for the stop as Dawn continued to grumbled about the gummy substance that was half on her shoe, half on the railing. His stomach was still full from lunch earlier. Apparently a restaurant in Sandgem was holding an open buffet, and you can't take buffets for granted. You just can't. It's the law ... at least for a boy. Dawn, watching all twenty pounds of her weight, only ate two plates, one of them being completely desserts. The shame! The shame!

He shook his head and focused his attention on the ships past the railing. They, too, reflected the pale moonlight, reflecting the light back at him. They were bobbing rather wildly, the ropes– evil fiends–that anchored the boats to the docks stressed from all the manic tugging. "I suppose we could charter a boat," he answered. "There were sailors that use to ship trainers back and forth between here and Iron Island."

Dawn gave her boot one final scrap against the railing before dropping her foot. She grabbed the cold railing in her covered hands and pressed her body against it, looking at the bobbing boats. "A boat, huh?" she repeated. "Guess that would be the best way. Was thinking we could use our pokémon or something ..."

"Yeah, let's go swimming in freezing cold water in waves that will surely rip us apart to an island that is an unknown distance away." Lucas grabbed both ends of his scarf and pulled on them, trying to warm up the back of his neck.

"It sounded like a good idea in my head!" she whined.

"Even if it were calmer weather and the water wasn't so icy," he replied dully, "you only have a piplup for a water-type. He wouldn't be able to carry your weight for long."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, I'm calling your piplup scrawny." Lucas immediately sidestepped after this comment, missing Dawn's swinging fist with a small smirk. "I have a few water-types that may be able to make the journey, but it's too risky. You know, the whole freezing-your-balls-off thing."

"Lovely imagery," murmured Dawn with a grimace, releasing the railing from her grip to pull down on her hat. She rubbed her legs together, trying to rid them of goosebumps. "Gah. This weather. Why is it so chilly here but not back home?"

Lucas looked the girl up and down. "The ocean," he said. "Plus you're wearing a skirt still. What is the point of bringing a jacket if you refuse to throw on pants?"

"I have fabulous legs that need to be showed off," she answered as if it were obvious. She motioned toward her legs. "Helloooo? Besides, it wasn't that cold earlier."

"Ah." He pursed his lips and nodded a couple of times, eyes rolling to the side. "Right. Anyway, boat it is."

Dawn flipped over and leaned her back against the rail, Lucas following suit. "So how do we get someone to take us there? Do they ship there?"

"I figure not en masse since it's not a popular destination." Lucas sighed, catching sight of a wooden building that was snuggled between the sets of docks that dipped down toward the sea. He slowly walked toward it, stepping into a puddle and kicking water into his shoes. It was hard to ignore the mushy feeling that seeped through his socks and into his toes. He heard Dawn follow him, stepping in the same puddle and kicking droplets toward the back of his jeans much to his dismay. They stopped in front of the booth.

"Hmm," he said, stepping closer and lightly pressing his finger against a board that had an engraved list of names on it. "... Yeah, Fullmoon isn't on here." He looked toward the glass of the booth, noticing the sign placed inside it. Closed.

Dawn spotted the sign as well and scuffed her boot across the concrete. "Now what?"

"I guess we wait until tomorrow and ask around." Lucas ran his tongue across his dry lips and turned around, facing the girl. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

"Hey, we have no other leads except this," she argued, poking him in the chest, which made him step back. "You told me that cresselia is the counterpart of darkrai, and the book says she's protector of those who fall under darkrai's spell, and according to the 'dex, cresselia is rumored to take rest at Fullmoon Island, so if we want to have a fighting chance of curing Lane, we gotta at least investigate it."

"Use more than one sentence to speak," he muttered.

She ignored his snark. "Besides, what can it hurt?"

"Even if cresselia is supposedly there," Lucas brushed past Dawn, and Dawn walked beside him, "what do you except us to do? Talk to her and tell her about Lane's situation?"

"Don't be stupid. This isn't a fairy tale." Dawn sighed, noticing that it was cold enough for her to see the water vapor in her breath. "You're going to catch it!"

Lucas made a weird choking noise before coughing a few times, his eyes starting to water up. "You want me to _what_?" he asked, bewildered, rubbing at the corners of his eyes.

"Catch it."

"Are you ... Woman, you are insane."

"Are you not pokémon champion, pokémon champion?" She nudged her elbow into his arm, sneering. "Come on, pokémon champion. Be a pokémon champion for once, pokémon champion."

"Stop saying that, and no, I'm not catching it. It's powerful, according to data, and there's only a few of its kind. Either way, I wouldn't feel right about catching something near extinction ... even if I could. You look into your little Fairy Tale Book," he nudged his head in the direction of Dawn's bag that swung from her shoulder, "and see if there's another way to use cresselia without her actually being there. This is your brilliant scheme after all. I'm just being your bitch for now."

Dawn pouted. "Fine. But you find us a way to get to Fullmoon."

"Fair enough."

The two walked down the sidewalk that lead toward the bridge and stopped, listening to the cacophony of screeching wingull and crashing waves. Dawn gripped the strap of her bag and looked in the direction of the library, its four-story height a dark silhouette against the moonlight. A few of the windows were lit gold; people beside her and Lucas stayed in libraries past eight o'clock? Freaky stuff.

The scent of something burning made her nose crinkle, and she turned her head, her hair whipping around her shoulder. It was a man smoking a cigarette while he leaned against the railing, the smoke from the glowing orange tip rising hazily into the night before being swept away with a sharp breeze. The man was fiddling with his lighter, opening and closing its lid with a click. He must have felt Dawn's disdained look on his side as he turned his head, stopping.

"You two are here awfully late," the man said gruffly, shifting the cigarette to the side of his mouth so he could speak. He pocketed his lighter into his jacket. "I thought you were taking a break today."

Dawn looked at Lucas, confused. The streetlights cast the man in awkward shadows; she could make out his shape but couldn't see the details of his face. "Yeah. We got a little worried about how we would continue tomorrow, though," replied Lucas, unfazed by the smell of smoke. "We need to get to Fullmoon, so we were looking around for ways to get there from here."

The man pulled the cigarette out his mouth and threw it on the ground, stomping and grinding it into ash against his heel. "Fullmoon, eh?" The man walked closer, and Dawn recognized him as Eldritch, his dark hair tousled from the wind. Brown eyes directed themselves toward the boats before redirecting themselves at the duo. "Yeah. Not a lot of people go there. Maybe for the occasional wedding. Gorgeous place. Desolate, though. Why do you have to go there?"

"We think darkrai had something to do with what happened," answered Dawn, "and Fullmoon is the host island of cresselia, darkrai's counterpart."

Eldritch rubbed his chin, feeling up his five o'clock shadow. "Ah, right. I heard stories about darkrai. Fearsome beast, ain't he? Induces nightmares or something like that. And cresselia tries to protect those who are inflicted by his attacks. Popular tale at Halloween around these parts. Of course, I thought it was just a story ..." He shrugged, directing his attention toward Lucas. "What about you? How do you feel about this?"

"As skeptical as you, sir," replied Lucas, shifting his weight between his feet, "though I suppose data can support it. Darkrai has been reported to use hypnotic-type moves, though I've never heard it using its attack on people. I figured it was a solitary breed. Can't say I know much about cresselia either. But why not? I'll just blame her if we're wrong." He nudged his head in Dawn's direction.

"Please." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, do you think we'll be able to find someone to ship us there tomorrow afternoon?"

"Why tomorrow afternoon?"

"I have a battle presentation in Jubilife in the early afternoon," Lucas piped in. "I also figured cresselia would be more active at night. Though maybe it would be better to find her if she were dormant ..." He shook his head. "Either way, doesn't matter as I won't be able to get out until at least three or four." His brow furrowed together in thought. "Hey ... Uh, I know you're busy with Lane and all, but I remember you shipping me out to Iron Island years ago. Do you think you could help us find someone who can take us to Fullmoon tomorrow?"

"I'll give you one better, kid. I'll ship you both there myself."

**. . .**

"Heck," he corrected.

Pardon?

"Heck," he repeated. "Mom told me that the h-word is a bad word, so she tells me to say 'heck.' Even when I use 'heck,' she gets mad at me. She tells me there's no reason for me to use that word. Maybe I have a real reason to use it now." Lane smiled, scrunching his cheeks so the dimples in his cheeks showed. "But, um, I guess she's not here. So ..." He looked around the dark space. "Hell, hell, hell, hell!" His voice echoed, and he laughed.

Child?

"Lane," said Lane. "Call me Lane."

It means nothing to me.

"What?"

Lane. The name. It means nothing to me.

"I thought nothing was everything here," he said, spreading his arms out and spinning. "Isn't that what you told me earlier? So I am also everything to you. I think I'm the only thing here from the looks of it." He stopped spinning and looked up. Black. Down. Black. Left and right. Black and black. "How come you're here, whoever you are?"

I have been since the beginning, since time started ticking, and perhaps even before. This is how it should be.

"Oh." The child's voice was simplistic; it held no pity, no fear. "You don't get sad from that?"

What is the meaning of this word, sad?

"You know! When you feel ... I don't know. Sad?" Lane brought his hands up to his face and inserted his fingers into the corners of his mouth, tugging down on them to the point where he revealed the inside of his lower lip. "Like this." He took his fingers out. "When you get a frown on your face. That's when you're sad usually."

Then no, child. I do not get sad.

"What about happy? Do you know what happy is?"

No.

"Mad?"

No.

"Lonely?"

I do not know.

"Oh," he said again. Lane did back flips in the dark open space, spreading his arms wide again. "Have you run out of things for me to think of?"

This bemuses me, child. Are you aware of where you are?

"Not really. I know all the weird stuff suddenly stopped happening. I know it's not home. Can you let me go home?"

No.

"Oh. Mom, always gets me for this. _May_ you let me go home?"

No.

"Why not?"

I do not know the meaning of this word. Home. Describe it for me.

Lane stopped flipping, flattening his hair back down to his scalp. "I live in Canalave on Dark Water Drive. It's, like, three blocks away from the library on the west side of the docks. Know where that is?"

I do not. Continue.

"Canalave is in Sinnoh. Sinnoh is north of Kanto. Kanto is where Lance is. Do you know who Lance is?"

No.

Lane grinned. "He's the greatest. He has _three_ dragonite and a charizard. Isn't that nuts?"

I am not sure. Continue with your definition of this "home."

Lane wrinkled his nose as he thought. "I live with my mom and my dad. Mom stays at home and Dad's a sailor. He brings me back neat stuff from his trips! One time he brought me home a moon stone from the Kanto region! It was awesome! I lost it, I think. Don't tell Dad." He paused, resting a finger on his chin.

"Mom is bossy," he said thoughtfully. "She tells me to not do this, or do that, or eat this, or don't eat that, or stop being so noisy, or speak up, or sit down, or stand up." He sighed, hooking his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans while looking down at his untied shoes. "But she does make the best chocolate chip cookies! And she taught me how to blow bubbles out of bars of soap! One time she took me to Kanto to meet Lance!" He paused, looking around. "So where's home for you?"

Child, if I were to use your definition of "home," then I do not believe I have one.

"No! That's my home, stupid! Everyone's home is different! Is this your home?"

Perhaps.

"You must get bored here. You don't have any TVs or video games! What do you do for fun?"

I read into others.

"Read?" Lane's face twisted in disgust. "Bleh! You should get a TV. What good do you get from reading others? Sometimes me and Julie sometimes go to Francis' house because he has this big TV, and we watch pokémon battles. It's awesome. I think it'd be funner than reading others."

Who are they?

"Who? Francis and Julie?" Lane blinked a few times. "They're my friends from school. Julie lives next door. Francis is a few blocks away. Francis sometimes bugs me because he calls me short and 'Dumbo', but he has the best pokémon cards, and he keeps the bigger, older kids away from us. Julie is cool. She always has her hair in these two pigtails. I tug on them when I want to make her mad."

Continue.

"We have lots of fun. One time we had a water balloon fight, and I hit Francis so hard with a balloon, he fell backward into some mud." He laughed again, keeling over and clutching onto his stomach. "It was funny." He recomposed himself, containing his laughter. "Do you have friends?"

No. I have no idea what those are either.

"So you must get lonely sometimes, right? Is that why you do it? You pick pokémon or people and poke around in their head so you're not alone?"

I do it for energy, child. It sustains my health. It keeps me going. I harbor no feeling toward my prey. I do this because it is how it should be. It was how I was created.

"You know, I can be your friend," Lane said, tilting his head to the side. "I have no idea who you are, but you sound sad – even if you don't know what that means. I'm lonely here, too. But if we're together, we're not alone anymore, right?"

Enough of this, child. You have amused me far enough. You are nothing but an energy sack. Go back from where you came.

"I'm trying," Lane replied sadly, lowering his head to stare at his feet. And then he was gone.

* * *

* **Note**: Part of the "abyss" definition came from Merriam-Webster. Lulz. Also, narrative for everyone else's scenes were more straightforward since I think it would have been too much with Lane's scenes. Or maybe I was lazy. One or the other. Thanks for reading. =P


	12. Chapter Twelve

I like the word "maybe." It's a nice word.

...

Diet: Sweets

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

Lucas was a fantastic battler, Dawn realized. Actually, she always knew that, but today was the first time in a long time that she saw him battle, and darn he was impressive. It was the only time the guy opened up. Dawn didn't think he was aware of it; he was too caught up in the excitement of battle. It was the only time Lucas was, well, Lucas. Not Lucas the champion, or Lucas, Rowan's apprentice researcher, but Lucas, the original Lucas that got him where he was today. It was here that she saw him smile on his own, a smile that wasn't forced. She wished she could make him smile like that. Sometimes she saw something glimmer in the guy's eye whenever she did something stupid (so rude. Amused by her clumsiness), but it was far from the look on his face when he battled.

Now they were walking back to Canalave from Jubilife, Lucas staring down at his pokéballs and Dawn staring at him, unclipped hair brushing against her cheek. She tossed it behind her, which was in vain as the strands came back to taunt her again, then said, "You were awesome, Lucas."

This caught the boy's attention. He looked up from his pokéballs. "Hmm?"

"In your battle demonstration, I mean. You're an amazing trainer."

"I try," he replied honestly. "It wasn't a real battle. Just a demonstration of moves."

"Still. Why must you fight my compliments?" she groaned, scuffing the ground with her boot and kicking up dust, letting it swirl and dilute the air in front of her.

Lucas wrapped his hands around each backpack strap and shifted his attention from the girl to the mountains past her, their peaks capped with snow. "It's true. That wasn't even close to my real style," he said, hands roaming down and gripping the loose ends, swinging them back and forth in timing with his walks.

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what does your _real_ battle style look like, oh great one?"

"If you're lucky, you might be able to witness it one day." Had Dawn not known Lucas for a while now, she would assume the boy was being a cocky smart-butt. But no, he was being truthful. A cocky truth teller ... or something.

Dawn skipped a bit, pebbles grinding underneath her feet. Canalave was nearby; she could already see the library from here, its windows reflecting the glint of the afternoon sun. "It's not late to go, is it?" she asked worriedly. "I mean, we are heading out late in the afternoon." She motioned toward the sky. The sun was heading for the western hills in a brilliant orange blaze, fading into the crisp night the further east she looked. She could already see a few stars, flickering and winking – or were those airplanes?

"Cresselia is a nocturnal pokémon according to reports. I figured we'd spend the rest of the today trying to find where cresselia rests during the day while its out and approach it in the morning when it's dormant. Now, I'm trusting you with this; your stupid – er, myths book may have some info on cresselia that we can interpret into something plausible. Have you looked into it yet? It might have ..."

Lucas hadn't notice that Dawn had stopped in her tracks a while ago, not only amazed that the boy had spoken for more than three sentences straight (and apparently was still babbling) but by what he said. Afternoon until next morning had a nighttime thrown in there, right? They were going to stay overnight? Together? In the same five foot radius? Together? She ... together?

The boy finally stopped talking and turned around once he noticed Dawn wasn't next to him. He raised his eyebrows, pocketing his hands into his jeans.

"So we're staying overnight?" she voiced her thoughts.

"I said that last night, remember?"

She tried to. When did he tell her? Was it when they were getting ice cream? She popped her hip, placing her weight on her right leg, and rested a finger on her chin. Yes, that must be when. She remembered him babbling about the boat ride, and it caused her to daze out. Or was it because she was trying to pick the toppings she wanted on top of her cake batter ice cream? Gummy bears were good, mmm ... So were sprinkles. Ooh! White chocolate chips! ... Oh, he was talking again.

"... bring anything, did you?" was all she heard once she snapped out of it.

"My what?" she repeated.

He sighed. "Figures. I should have known given how light your bag looks." Dawn patted her bag, feeling the hardcover of her myths book and nothing else.

"You could have reminded me," she argued feebly.

"You're not four years old. You didn't bring _anything_?"

"Not much," she admitted. "Well, besides the stuff I drag around daily."

"You have ... nothing?"

"I have a ..." she looked down at her bag and grabbed her jacket, waving it in the air, "jacket!"

Dawn heard him sigh and turn back around, heading toward the city. Dawn hung her jacket on top of her bag and chased after him, inhaling the sharp air that almost make her gag. "Well, what am I suppose to do?" she asked once she caught up with the boy, the strong scent of wet grass leaving a burning sensation in her nostrils.

"Stay behind."

She gaped. "I can't stay behind! You need me! You just told me you did!"

"I told Eldritch we would leave at four. It is a quarter 'til four. You think you have time to go back and get stuff?" They hit a concrete path; Canalave was close.

Dawn sighed and looked at the pokétch wrapped around her bag's strap right above her pokédex. The bold font told her it was 3:47 P.M. Oh, if only she could had a hidden teleport power. Then she could teleport to her room, race around, and gather her sleeping bag and other stuff. After, she would teleport back to Canalave at the docks _waaaay_ ahead of Lucas, much to his chagrin. Oh, perhaps she could find some sort of power that slowed time. Yeah, that's it. Actually, wouldn't that slow her down, too, making the power pointless? So she would have to have the power of speeding ahead of everyone else ... or something. That's just the teleport power, isn't it? This is why all powers should relate to chocolate, darn it!

He wasn't going to leave her behind, was he? She had all the answers. Without her, he wouldn't know what to do. Technically, she didn't either; the book had little – okay, _no_ information on how to "wake" someone up from darkrai's spell. Cresselia had something to do with it, though. Did cresselia have to be there in order for Lane to wake up? Or maybe just a part of her? Would she do a move or something they could copy later? Was it like ... spores? Some sort of sound byte they could record?

Dawn brought both her hands up to her hat and tugged down on it in frustration, letting the material rub against her forehead. There was a slight stamp in her step, her stomps making loud thunks against the concrete. She gazed at the buildings of the seaside town, shops with walls embedded with sand and seashells. They were particular beautiful now; the setting sun was able to catch some sparkle in the grains, making them glitter like diamonds.

"You're really gonna leave me behind?" she whined.

"I can't make you do anything," he replied airily, eyes set forward toward the wooden docks where resting boats bobbed up and down in the water. "That's up to you. But let's see how long you last without supplies because I don't think I can support two people with what I brought."

"Please. It can't be that bad."

He rolled his eyes.

"I've gone camping before," she added.

"I'm sure you had supplies then," he muttered.

"Nuh uh! Well, besides a sleeping bag. We caught fish and everything!"

"And I'm sure you brought fishing rods for those fish."

Dawn wrinkled her nose. "It's true! We were there for two whole days."

"Only two days?" he asked, eyes glistening in amusement. "We might be on that island for much longer. Overnight was just an estimate. Could be a week for all you know."

"Excuse me?"

Lucas laced his hands together behind his head and placed them against the nape of his neck, extending his elbows out. "We don't know if cresslia is even there. It could take a while to find her, depending on her big the island is and how fast we travel." He stopped at the railing, releasing his grip to take hold of the cold metal. He gazed onward. Down the wooden ramp were a few of the ships, their sails lowered. Dawn opted to lean against it, resting her chin on her collarbone.

"I'm not saying this to scare you out of it," Lucas continued. "I'm just trying to warn you ahead of time. Even if you were thoroughly prepared–" He turned his head slightly to look at her near-empty bag. "–or prepared at all, there could be things you might not be able to handle."

She crossed her right leg over her left and folded her arms, pressing them against her chest. "Such as?"

"Wild pokémon attacks, hunger, thirst, lack of privacy, tall heights, low heights, dark caves, open spaces, the list goes on."

She remained quiet, watching people walk by. Her eyes rested on a mother-daughter duo. The mother was holding the hand of her little girl, and clutched in the little girl's hand was a red balloon. It hovered above her at a tilt as it dragged behind. A strong bout of wind blew. Dawn flinched, squinting, her hair brushing against her face and obscuring her vision. Through the dark strands, she saw a ball of red fly by and take toward the skies, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

"Mama!" she heard. "My balloon!"

With one hand, Dawn gathered her hair in one clump, watching as the mother got on her knees to get to her daughter's eye level, gently cupping her face while she said something that made her daughter hug her. Dawn suddenly missed her mother, and then her heart leaped to her throat and made her eyes water as she her thoughts derailed toward Alyson and the scared but protective look on her face as she stood near Lane, holding his hand.

She got the both of them into this; she'd be damned if she didn't follow through. "I don't care. I'm in this until the very end," Dawn said firmly, nodding.

"Well, okay." She heard the skepticism in his voice. "It's not too late to change your mind, though."

"I'm not going to."

"All right then."

Lucas turned around and hoisted himself up onto the railing, sitting on the top bar and resting his feet on the middle bar. He looked at his pokétch to check the time before gripping the railing tightly with both hands. Dawn was tempted to push him backward, but they were a good few feet above the sea, and there was a chance he would hit the docks below instead of the water, and if he did hit the docks, he could land head first, breaking his neck, and that would kill him (or something), and she would wind up in prison; and let it be known that she looked absolutely, one-hundred-and-one percent _horrible_ in an orange jump suit (she wouldn't know by experience; she just assumed); and if, by chance, he did hit the water, he would be pissed at her, and that's no way to get a boy to like you (or is it? She could pull it off as a joke. Then she would help him dry off (because that's what the girl character does in romantic comedies (or was this a plain romance? Lucas wasn't that funny (well, not intentionally). Maybe romantic suspense? Will they end up together or not?), which consists of, but is not limited to, poking fun at the guy protagonist), and as she would reach up to wring his hat of water, she would brush her dainty fingers against his cheek, and he–yes, he–would grab her hand gently and pull her in for a kiss – and oh, my goodness, this is just too cute. She should write this down somewhere once she had the chance. And several, several, SEVERAL years from now, they would get married and have kids, two boys, one girl, two years apart in age, with the girl being the youngest. Also, she wanted to live near Hearthrome, and it'll be the most amazing thing ever!) because who likes to get wet? Definitely not her.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"3:55."

"Oh. And he's coming at four?"

"Around there, yeah. Change your mind yet?"

She huffed. "Do you not want me to come or something?"

"It's not that," Lucas argued. "I just ..." He pursed his lips and looked to the side shiftily. "Never mind."

She smiled cheekily. "What? Are you worried about me?"

"No," he quickly replied, his voice in a higher pitch for some reason. He cleared his throat with a grunt. "I could give two shits about you. Three of them, even."

She nudged him in the arm with her elbow, smirking. "Admit it. Admit you care about me!"

"No. I don't."

"Fine." Her grin widened. "But I know you do even if you're too manly to say it. And you know what? I care for you, too!"

"Lord," he murmured. He looked at his pokétch again, pressing its buttons to flip through its many screens. "Look. I just don't want to deal with your plethora of whining."

"I don't whine!" she whined.

"Okay."

She huffed. "You're so infuriating. You know that, right?"

"Flies catch more honey with vinegar or whatever you said that one night."

"It's 'you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar,' and that idiom isn't even applicable to this conversation."

"Ah. Okay."

Him and his stupid "okays." Ugh, she hated that word with a passion now. How did he get her so riled up with a stupid four letter word in that stupid, dull tone of his? "Is Eldritch here yet?" she asked, annoyed.

Lucas looked down the sidewalk. "Not from what I can see," he said, looking at the people.

Dawn lowered her head and focused her attention on the gum on the ground, trying to connect them together to make a picture. "I could have ran to the store and bought stuff," she grumbled.

"Yeah, but you didn't."

"You said I didn't have time!" Her eyebrows furrowed.

"No, I asked you a rhetorical question. 'Do you think you have time to go back and get stuff?' was what I said. I remember because I was there."

"That's pretty much saying what I said!"

"No, it's an entirely different thing." He picked at the dirt in his fingernails and flicked the dirt off his thumb. "One is a question. The other is a statement. Punctuation is key."

She felt her nose wrinkle in anger, the back of her throat rumble, and her cheeks start to flush. "I'm going to smack you I swear."

"Okay."

She had to fight back the urge not to, gripping the metal railing behind her and taking a few deep breaths. She twisted the ball of her right foot back and forth, listening to the gravel crunch under her feet. Why did she have to like the most annoying, most vexing, most cynical boy on the face of Sinnoh – no, the entire planet? Good question. Why did she? Dawn looked the boy up and down, the way his hat always seemed to sit askew on his head, slightly cocked over his blue eyes. His scarf, the ends gently swaying with the breeze, was wrapped tightly around his neck. He was slightly slouched over, relaxed.

She guessed she liked him because he was smart, and, on occasion, nice, but he had to be a complete jerkwad before that. Maybe she liked the challenge of trying to pry open and enter through the boy's tightly guarded mind.

Dawn grabbed for the frays of her scarf and twisted them around her pointer fingers. She did like Lucas when they were younger–not in the same way now, of course–and, as strange as it was, she liked him the way he was now, too. She didn't know why. She always pegged herself as someone who would go for the sensitive type who liked to talk and have fun and watch romantic movies with her. Lucas was, like, the exact opposite of that, blunt but quiet at the same time. He was a riddle that didn't want to be solved. It's weird. She wanted to solve it, of course, but leave it untouched so he'll remain the same Lucas that she started to feel funny toward a few weeks ago. That's impossible, of course.

God, he made her brain hurt.

She never answered her question, though. Why did she like Lucas? Was it really just for the challenge? What a terrible reason. Or maybe because she just ... did. Some things just are, like he said. It was unexplainable–lots of things are–but she felt it, that warm feeling in her stomach. It wasn't cliché, the beautifly that would flap in her stomach when a cute guy would talk to her; it was just ... warm, and different, but nice. It didn't make her giddy like her other crushes. She just ... She just knew she liked it. She knew she liked him, but don't tell him that. He probably secretly knows, the jerk, and he's probably waiting to use it against her because that's what jerks do. They do jerky things. That sounded funny.

Lucas looked at Dawn who was still staring at the ground. "Hey," he said softly. "Can I ask you something?"

She looked back at him, curious. "Ask me something?"

"Yeah."

"If it allows me to ask you anything once I think of it later."

He groaned. "Fine." He paused, licking his dry lips. "Why are you still ... here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean in Sandgem. You've been a trainer for years now. Longer than I have been, I think."

She started to fidget uncomfortably, still playing with the ends of her scarf. "Well, yeah," she replied quietly, looking down.

"So why are you always around here whenever I come back home?"

She had been asked this so many times before, and her answer had remained unchanged. "I don't really need to go all over the region to do my study," she said monotonously, the answer sketched in her brain. "Jubilife is nearby and is a central town for people and pokémon alike. If I want to observe people and pokémon in interaction or get interviews, I can think of no better place. And, you know, Professor Rowan needs me." Dawn laughed lightly, awkwardly. "When you're not around, who else will get him coffee and run his errands?"

The boy didn't seemed amused as she looked at him through the corner of her eye. "Yeah?" he finally responded, head tilted. "Well ... okay."

"Mm." Dawn turned her head. "There's just no need for me to go around the region like you do. I was never interested in being a battler and competing in the league. There was a time I was interested in being a coordinator but ... I don't know. I suppose that was short-lived." She felt her throat tightening up, tears on the verge of spilling and messing up her make-up. "I like what I do, honest. I love my study. I love what I do." She had to pause, trying to straighten out her shaky tone. "It's like you, Lucas, the way your face lights up when you battle. That's how I feel when I'm doing what I do."

She heard the boy clear his throat, state a, "But," before closing his mouth.

"Why do you ask?" Dawn questioned, trying to discretely bring a hand up to her face to wipe at her eyes.

"Curious, is all. Was wondering if you, you know, leave."

There was the bluntness again. It was one of the first insults Lucas picked up whenever she was getting on his nerves. _You COULD leave Sandgem, you know._ Of course she knew that. But she couldn't. She didn't have to. She didn't want to.

She guessed he picked up on the harshness of his tone was and quick to tack on a, "Not that there's anything wrong with that" in that same airy tone from earlier. He didn't mean it.

"I know." She managed to blink back the remaining tears and straightened her head once she felt Lucas's gaze bore into the back of her head. "It's not like I haven't thought about traveling. I mean, really traveling. Not taking a train or a bus from one major city to the next." She snapped her attention toward him, startling the boy. "And say it."

"Say ... what?"

"What you were going to say earlier."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"'But,''" she quoted. "But what?"

Lucas narrowed his eyes. "But okay," was his simple reply. "I don't believe you, you know. 'I don't leave because I don't have to; everything is here for me.' Unlike you, though, I don't pry into territory where I know I'm not wanted." His face had remained stern which made Dawn mad for some reason.

"It's none of your business," she said.

"Same goes to you when your prying into my life."

"That's different!" Dawn glared back at him, cheeks scrunching up. "That's totally different! I do it because I worry about you and want to be your friend! You're doing it to me because you're a jerk!"

"I'm doing it because I was curious," he replied in his usual calm demeanor. "Like you."

She huffed, squeezing her folded arms with her hands.

Lucas lifted his arm to check his watch: 4:05. "It's fine doing what you're doing. If you're comfortable with it, then, well, okay. But I think you could learn so much if you do travel around a bit more and throw yourself out of the box. Understanding concepts mean nothing without application. And ..." he sighed. "You're a ... nice–" She saw Lucas's face crinkle, "–person. It's not like you would have trouble meeting people outside this area."

"I'm not scared of that."

"So you're scared of something."

"I never said that either."

"I won't pry. I just thought it would be a thing you would have adored doing, going out and meeting people from all over the region." Lucas kicked his legs out to stretch them, staring at his shoes before putting them back on the railing. "But okay."

Dawn twisted one of her golden barrettes out of her hair, letting her bangs tease her forehead, and rolled the clasp in her hand, smudging the sheen with her fingertips. Something was burning inside her chest. It wasn't the same warm sensation she got whenever she thought of her and Lucas together. This was entirely different; this was an entirely new sensation that she hadn't felt in a while. Pain, humiliation, guilt. It had bubbled up to her throat, like vomit – or was it really vomit? She hated it.

Lucas had good intuition; all brilliant trainers do. So when Lucas told her that he didn't believe her, she wasn't surprised. Everyone has a sad story inside them; some are just sadder than others. She knew better than to feel bad, especially when compared to Lucas's history. Perhaps that is the sad part about it – her life is so mundane that it's not worth mentioning to others.

Tell a story. Make it more interesting.

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who had a loving father, a loving mother, and a loving younger sister, and they all lived together in a loving home. When she turned ten, she managed to pass the exams to obtain her trainer's license. Afterward (yawn), she skipped right on over to Professor Rowan's laboratory to see if she could sign up as an apprentice. More boring tests (more yawns) later, she managed to get accepted after an interview. She was his shadow for a while; she followed him constantly, and she helped him the best that she could. Eventually, inspired by the professor's own evolution studies, she decided to branch out and figure out the connection between pokémon and humans and how these relationships sometimes trigger a pokémon to evolve. Yawn, yawn, yawn, yawn. There's an interesting plot point thrown in there somewhere. What, though, she didn't know.

Why didn't she leave home? Why didn't she try to find more adventure if she knew her life was pretty dull compared to everyone else's? Well, she liked the comfort. She liked knowing that everyone around her liked her.

So you're scared of something. Maybe she was. She knew she did well here, but to put yourself on the line once you leave the safety of home ... She didn't get how Lucas could do it on a day-to-day basis; he obviously has issues–big ones–from doing so. And maybe it was pressure from others, pressure to please or whatever, but he was always out there, getting into trouble, getting into adventure. He didn't want to talk about it, but he at least had _something_ to talk about once he did.

She could go into dramatics, this fear, and concoct a reason plausible for her situation. She could say she was attacked by a wild pokémon while walking outside the city one day that made her scared to leave home, though everyone is attacked at least once in their life, and she wasn't scared of that. She had no money. Not true, either. Her family would support her, like they do in all aspects of her life. Professor Rowan needed her. No, he has the great Lucas on his side.

Dawn likes stories, but you should already know that. The beginnings, the characters, the morals, but she always liked the endings the most. The happily-ever-afters. Or the empty, lonely feelings you get after a particularly sad story. But you can never get there if there's no climax, no plot-turning moment where everything falls into place – or more rattled than ever. She didn't know. Maybe one day she'll finally leave, but she was happy and content now. Most people spend the rest of their lives looking for that. Why look for something you already have?

"Why risk it?" she accidentally said out loud.

"Risk what?" Of course he would question back.

Dawn turned her attention toward Lucas (his gaze was intense that it left her breathless for a second), gathering her hair and clipping it behind her golden barrette. "When you're out there traveling, aren't you scared?"

"Of what?"

"Failing."

Something thoughtful crossed his face. "Honestly, no," he said after a while, lifting his hand to rub at the corner of his eye. "To your question ... 'Why risk it?' I ask that about a lot of things. But failure? I'm not afraid of failure."

Dawn nodded. He continued. "I guess I don't think I'll ever fail. It's cocky to say that." She saw a grin twitch on his face. "There's too much pressure on me to fail. I'd be angry with myself if I did."

"Boys." She sighed.

"Maybe." He gripped the railing tight in his hands and leaned back, letting the afternoon sun rays soak through his shirt. "Is that it? You're scared of failing?"

"Yes–no. I don't know. I'm happy with where I am," she said, the wind lifting her hair and grazing it softly against her cheek.

He looked at her so thoughtfully, so curiously, so sympathetically, and she felt her stomach twist again, this time in complete astonishment that the boy actually took genuine interest and concern with one of her problems. "Hmm," he finally said, his voice pleasantly vibrating near the end of his statement.

She paused, waiting for him to say something else, but he didn't. "Is that all you're going to say? 'Hmm'?"

"I'm not sure what else to say."

"You were doing so well."

He rolled his eyes, swinging his legs back and forth. "You're happy?" he repeated, his voice a bit jittery from his leg movements.

Dawn smiled. "I like to think that I am."

"I'm jealous," he replied plainly.

"Same," she said.

Dawn saw his left hand release its grasp around the railing, and she saw him reach out toward her tentatively, but he quickly redrew it, clasping it around the back of his sweaty neck instead. "Maybe one day we'll both get what we want."

She wanted him.

"Maybe," she said, eyes alight.

Lucas noticed the short, stout figure of Daniel Eldritch walking toward them. In between the fingers of his right hand was a lit cigarette, ashes from the tip escaping its confines and floating toward the earth. He jumped off the railing, readjusting the backpack straps on his back. "But anyway, what are you afraid of risking?"

Dawn pushed herself back up as well, quickly grabbing her jacket before it could slip off of her bag. "Happiness," she said quietly, thoughtfully, as the two of them began walking toward the hefty sailor. "What about you?"

He blinked at her a few times. "The same."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Have you ever thought of your life in seconds? How if you were five seconds ahead or five seconds behind, you would be drastically different? I think the consensus is things are up to fate, an undetermined destiny waiting to be found. But I think it's up to timing. I'm not sure what my point is. I think it's interesting how some things are because you were at the right place at the right time. Or wrong. Or whatever.

Barry tells me it is up to decision, the smaller events that turn into significant ones. Of course Barry knows no other time than being late. Maybe it's both. Timing and decision.

Do both of those make fate?

...

Habitat: The city/suburbs

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

The streets were gold that night. It rained earlier, and it was still raining albeit in drizzle, so the asphalt was wet and reflected the lights. Lane remembered because it was one of his rare nighttime drives with Dad. Dad sometimes had to run late night errands, and if it was the weekend, and if he finished all his homework, and if he ate all his dinner, yucky asparagus and all, he would get to go with him. Sometimes they got ice cream. He liked ice cream, specially chocolate with chocolate chips in a waffle cone.

"Dad?" he asked as he reached over to adjust the jeep's air conditioner vents. Hot air blasted him in the face, warming his cheeks and tingling his nose. "What are we gonna get Mom for her birthday?"

Dad let out a soft, "Hmm," through pursed lips, reaching over to turn down the radio. "What do you think is a good present for her?" Lane saw him shift his left hand to flick something up, and the right blinker turned on, sounding a pleasant "click CLICK" for a few seconds. It turned off when they turned right into a business district, tall buildings that bordered the streets.

Lane didn't answer right away. He turned his head and looked out the window, the lights of the street posts flying by in streaked blurs as they drove past them. It was raining lightly, and the streets were wet, and it reflected the gold lights. It made him dizzy if he stared too long.

"A gold necklace!" he shouted.

Dad let out another gruff, "Hmm."

"One that has a M!" Lane continued excitedly, turning toward Dad, the leather interior crunching underneath his rump. "For 'Mom!'"

"How about 'A' for 'Alyson?'" replied Dad as he ran his hands down to the bottom of the leather steering wheel, both pointer fingers resting lightly in its groove. "Or how about one of those," Dad lifted his right arm and shook it back and forth, "you know. Those ... charm bracelet things? One that has both letters?"

Lane beamed. "Yeah! Let's do that! And L, too! For Lane! And D! For you! Er, Dad! Uh, you!"

Dad laughed, and it made Lane smile wider. "Or E, for Eldritch."

"We should put the entire alphabet on it!" Lane yelled, bouncing in his seat. "And numbers!"

"How about we just stick to 'A' and 'L' and 'E,' Lane?" Dad eased on the brakes as they approached a red light, breaking the streets of gold.

Lane scrunched his face up, tying the letters together. "That spells 'ale,' Dad!"

He saw Dad grin. "How 'bout that?" The light turned green. Dad stepped on the gas, and they passed the stoplight, and the streets were gold once more. "We'll just mix the letters around."

They continued driving, him and Dad. He wasn't driving in case there's confusion. He couldn't reach the stupid pedals yet, but he liked to pretend he could – er, drive, not reach the pedals. Or maybe both. He would sit in the driver's seat, and he would grip the wheel and go "Vroom!" which made his lips vibrate and saliva splatter. But that wasn't the point. What was the point?

They were driving down the business district tonight. Lane liked how the streets looked gold because of the streetlamps and rain, and he was gonna comment on them, say how fun it would be if the streets were frozen instead of wet so they could ice skate on them, but there was an abrupt stop. His seat belt did that annoying thing when it latches onto something and pulls you back and chokes you. It probably did it for Dad, too, 'cause he heard him groan.

Lane looked ahead and noticed they were on a single set of train tracks. The single red-and-white plank that served as a barrier between cars and trains was lowered, barely touching the jeep's hood. The bells were chiming, the loud "DING DING DING" ringing in his ears and making his head rattle. Red lights flashed before his eyes.

He heard Dad cuss and saw him turn his head to look out the foggy back window. He repeated the same cuss. "Just drive through it," Dad whispered. "It's only one small track, and if you don't, you might get killed."

"Dad?" Lane asked worriedly, gripping the top half of his seat belt and trying to loosen it from its locked grip-of-death.

"Don't tell Mom," was Dad's reply as he floored it. The engine roared, and they broke the wooden barrier into pieces. The jeep rattled as it crossed the two metal railings.

Then more train tracks. They came out of nowhere–there were at least five more sets–and Dad angrily gripped the wheel, gritted his teeth, and sped up. As they were about to pass the last set of train tracks, there was a flash of gold–the streets of gold – wait, no!–and Lane turned his head toward his wind– DAD, WE'RE GONNA GET HIT BY

**. . .**

"It's not too late to go back, you know."

Dawn stood still on the grassy hill, watching Eldritch's small motor boat leave the shore, its engine rumbling loudly and kicking up water before fading away the further the sailor got. All left was her, Lucas, and the jacket she was so proud of carrying around after that one freezing night in Canalave. But now they weren't in Canalave. They were some on random island.

Alone.

Together.

Wait. How does that work?

The girl shivered, sliding the strap of her bag off her shoulder and placing it on the floor so she could throw the sleeves of her jacket around her bare arms. "Well, he's gone. I think it would be," she replied dryly.

"He's not that far out. One quick phone call away." Lucas waved his cellphone in the air before pocketing it. "Up to you, though."

She picked her bag back up and crossed her arms. "I'm not leaving. I'm sticking through with this."

"Fine."

He turned his back toward her and stared at the trees, most which he identified as olive, their trunks thick and twisting. Despite being in the occasionally heavy gale, the trees had most of their tiny, green leaves, though rotten fruit was resting around its base. Swarms of tiny gnats were flying around them. His eyes swept back and forth across the windswept terrain, the grass long and waving gently in greeting.

Figuring out if a unknown terrain was safe or not to travel through was something Lucas did quite often being a traveler and all. The first rule was to figure out if an area was safe. The second rule was never to talk about the first rule. Or was that only for fight club? Either way, he deemed the island practically desolate given there was enough fruit to rot. The island seemed fertile enough with how fresh everything was (and in such windy weather, he noted for the second time). It left him wondering why pokémon weren't here in the first place. Of course, maybe it was too early to judge. Maybe there were pokémon within the heavily-shaded forest, trying to protect themselves from the winds. (Did Lucas mention it was windy?) So that's where they would be staying, somewhat tucked into the forest but still near the border, like a person sleeping with one leg outside the blanket and one leg in. You're still getting warmth, sure, but if, for some reason, you need to kick a person down, you're more than prepared. (Also, it's windy. Swear to god.)

Lucas doubted Dawn thought of such things when she was admiring the scenery. While his primary concern was the safety of him and her, hers was how pretty the wild flowers were and ooh, look at the birds above, Lucas! And wow, those trees are HUGE!

"Look at them!" she urged, pointing. "You could build such an epic tree house in those things! And the flowers!" She bent down and plucked up a dandelion, the stem oozing sticky goo onto her fingers. She pressed the yellow petals in between her fingers before throwing the weed behind her. "So many flowers!" She balanced herself on her left leg and moved her right leg in small circles, twirling the dandelions and long grass around her ankles.

"Dandelions are weeds," he muttered.

She ignored this, like he assumed, as she stretched her arms above her head and breathed in deeply, taking in the salty air that tingled her nostrils. "So where do we start?" Dawn asked, dropping her arms and letting them swing by her sides, her knuckles brushing against her thighs.

Lucas began to head toward the shelter of trees up the small hill's incline, and Dawn quickly followed after him like the good puppy she was. "We start by finding a safe place to make camp before it gets too dark while Honchkrow evaluates the island," he replied, one hand wrapping around the strap of his backpack. He turned his head to look at the girl. She was already breathing heavily, and the space between the two of them was growing wider; her short legs were no match for Lucas's long strides.

"Honchkrow?" she managed to breathe out.

"The evolved form of murkrow," he explained. "An average height of two feet, eleven inches, weighing fifty-five to sixty pounds, and a dark and flying type, honchkrow are a usually ruthless, terrifying breed of pokémon known to–"

"I know what a honchkrow is!" Dawn snapped. "But what is it going to do?"

Lucas stopped, much to Dawn's relief as she scurried like a squirrel to stand by his side. He shrugged his backpack from his shoulders, pressing it against his chest. With a free hand, he reached around to the small, front pocket, the one that had the pokéball emblem stitched into it, and unzipped it, digging around until he pulled out a black case. He handed it to Dawn as he threw his backpack back on. "Open it."

Dawn blinked a few times and curiously ran her hand down the fine leather case, feeling the cold, metal hinges on the back before working her way to the front and smudging the silver latches. She opened them, the action leaving the tips of her fingers with a stinging sensation, and peered inside. The carefully kept item looked like a collar, also made of black leather, and it had some sort of half-sphere object connected to it in the middle.

"What is it?" she asked, cautiously picking up the collar by the end and staring at the sphere. It glimmered in the bright orange gaze of the setting sun.

Lucas's head was down, gazing at the pokéballs clipped to his belt. He picked one up and pressed the button, letting the ball enlarge in his hand. "Long story short, it's a camera. I can set it to take a picture every minute or so from my 'dex and it uploads the pictures to it. It's pretty handy when you're in areas you don't know. I hook the collar around Honchkrow's foot, and he flies around while the camera takes photos."

"How neat! It takes pictures? How? Show me." Dawn held both ends of the collar in front of her, her nose inches away from the red sphere. "Take a picture!" she exclaimed, noticing her distorted reflection in the glass.

"You heard nothing past, 'It's a camera,' huh?" he muttered, pulling his pokédex from his pocket and flicking open the cover. He held down a button on the side, and the device turned on with a fizzle and crack. He pressed a few more buttons, each press emitting a beep. "There. Now the camera is on 'manual' mode with auto focus, so all I have to do is press this button here and it takes a–"

"Gimme!" Dawn held the collar with one hand and swiped the pokédex out of Lucas's hand with the other. She pressed the button, smiling. The camera on the collar twisted around a bit before it took a picture. Quickly, she looked down at the pokédex's screen, watching as the picture uploaded. "Omigosh, that's a cute one. Send it to me later."

She turned her head and caught the end of Lucas's eye roll. "One more!" she said, wrapping the arm holding the pokédex around Lucas's shoulders and stretching her other arm out. Before Lucas could react, and by react he meant pull away, Dawn had already taken the picture. She released him from her grasp, knocking the pokédex against the back of his head and knocking his beret askew.

"So adorable. You better not delete this," she warned as she closed the lid of the pokédex and handed it and the collar back to the boy.

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, readjusting his beret. Lucas flicked the 'dex back open with his thumb while thrusting the pokéball in his hand into the air. The colors on the ball blurred together as it spun around, releasing the creature within. It reshaped itself into the formation of a bird, its two, wide wings spreading out and flapping as the pokémon flew above them.

"Good day, Honchkrow." Lucas gave the crow a nod. "Hope I'm not bothering you."

Lucas found this particular honchkrow–actually, murkrow–late at night in the Eterna Forest. It was the first pokémon he caught on his own, and the first pokémon, out of many, that drove him batshit insane. It didn't strike him as odd that he found his murkrow alone at the time (apparently murkrow like to stick together and follow after a leader honchkrow), but the more he researched the breed, the more he realized that his murkrow was a rebel, a freethinker who liked to disobey the will of his leader and did whatever the fuck he wanted, mostly for the giggles, but the bird was damn loyal when he needed to be.

Today, Honchkrow decided to rest on Dawn's head, his claws digging into the girl's white hat, and no matter how much she nudged her head to get the bird to fly off (or maybe it was so she could see him), he didn't budge. He instead cawed, clicking his beak and staring at Lucas through his beady, red eyes.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

Honchkrow nodded, lowering his head, the crest of feathers preened into the shape of a fedora hiding his eyes.

"Get him off me!" Dawn complained, raising her arms and trying to swipe at the bird. Honchkrow raised his head and smirked (how the hell do birds with beaks smirk? Dawn's piplup gave him that same look days ago), taking a step back and digging his feet deeper into Dawn's hair. "He's pulling my hair out!" she screeched, dropping her arms and tugging at her bottom strands.

Lucas pocketed his honchkrow's pokéball and stepped toward the two. "Stop moving and he'll stop moving," he said, raising his hand and gently brushing his knuckles against the soft tuft of white feathers that adorned the crow's chest. "I have a favor to ask, Honchkrow."

Honchkrow responded by lifting a heavy wing and digging his beak underneath it.

"I need you to fly around with the collar for a while. I haven't been here before, so it would be nice to have pictures to evaluate the island."

Honchkrow lifted his head and dropped his wing, tilting his head to the side. He cawed three times. Sharply, too.

Lucas sighed. "Don't ask me why. Or why we're not at the Battle Frontier."

"GET HIM OFF MY HEAD!" Dawn shouted, rolling her eyes up to get a glimpse at the bird. "He's hurting – ow! Stop digging your stupid feet into my – OUCH! LUCAS!"

The boy ignored her. "Anyway, want to help me? I really need it."

Honchkrow raised both wings and flapped them a few times to fly from Dawn's head to Lucas's shoulder. He felt the crow press the side of his head against the top of his, watching Dawn take a step back and sharply exhale. She looked startled for some reason, her eyes wide, her mouth partially open as the tips of her front teeth scraped lightly against her bottom lip.

"Croooow ..." the bird said slowly, his tongue rolling. He clicked his beak and whistled, looking Dawn up and down which further confused her.

"I ..." Lucas hesitated. "I'm glad you do, I guess. Not that I need it. Why do you even care?"

The bird cawed again.

"I am not. I have you guys for that."

A high-pitched whistle and two sharp caws.

"No."

Another caw.

"No."

The following caw was angrier.

"I'm not – no. You're being ridiculous."

"Um, what's going on?" asked Dawn, taking off her cap and examining it for possible holes the bird could have created with his sharp claws.

Again, Lucas ignored her. "I'm not going to do that. I don't even like – ouch!" Honchrow dug his claws into the boy's shoulder. "Okay, okay. Fine. After this entire thing is over, I will. Happy?"

The bird let out a cheerful caw.

Lucas sighed and lifted his right arm which the bird hopped onto. He clipped the collar around Honchkrow's left foot. "Now get outta here, you stupid bird. You drive me nuts." He thrust his arm up, and the bird took off, circling around the researchers' head before taking off, crying out his name a few times. Dawn didn't take his eyes off him, holding her hat tightly between her fingers. Even when she couldn't see him anymore, she didn't take her eyes off the sky, admiring the soft pinks and oranges that made up the sunset at the horizon and the sharp purple that took over the sky above her head.

She looked back down. After finding her hat undamaged, Dawn placed it back on her head and pulled down on the edges firmly. "What was that all about?" she asked curiously as Lucas toyed around with the settings on his pokédex.

"I guess a picture every twenty seconds should be enough," he muttered to himself before he closed his pokédex and pocketed it. He felt Dawn's gaze on him, so he looked up. "What?"

"That conversation with your honchkrow. What were you talking about?"

"Annoying stuff," he said with an eye roll. "C'mon. Let's find somewhere safe to make camp for the night before we head out. It's going to get dark."

Dawn nodded in agreement, and the two took off, entering the safety of olive trees.

**. . .**

Today was the big day.

Correction. Today was the day before the big day because today was the day Lane would finally take the terrifying, horrible, but awesome pokémon trainer's license test. School had been preparing him for this day for years on the basics of, like, everything. How to take care of a pokémon, basic battle skills, and much, much more, (plus shipping & handling), and he was totally prepared! He studied for once! And once he passed, tomorrow would be the day he'd finally get his long sought after trainer's license!

The test took place in room 305, the one room closest to the boy's bathroom on the third floor that always flooded because the rule was that the urinals should never be flushed, even if they were filled to the brim. The room was busy and antsy as people were waiting for the test examiner to enter. Julie was sitting next to him, organizing her pencils with pokémon-shaped erasers into neat lines. One hand was twirling a brown pigtail around her pointer finger. Francis was behind him.

"Hey." Francis tapped him on the shoulder, and Lane turned his head. "What berry cures paralysis?"

"Four," said Lane.

"Ah." Francis quickly scribbled the answer down on a scrap piece of paper while nodding. "Right. Thanks, Dumbo."

"I don't think you need to know how to bake leppa pie, though," Lane added.

"I figured, but just in case," muttered Francis. "If I don't pass ..."

Lane turned toward Julie who was weirdly quiet. "Hey, Julie! You nervous?"

It took Julie a while to notice Lane was talking to her. "Oh. Yeah," she replied, not ripping her eyes away from her study sheet, still twirling her hair around her finger.

Another tap on the shoulder. Lane turned away from Julie to look at another girl with long, blonde hair that hid the right side of her face. "Is anyone sitting in this seat?" she asked, gesturing to the seat on Lane's right side.

"Not that I know of."

"I'm actually saving that seat for someone," said another girl in the seat behind the empty one.

Julie finally lifted her head. "Says the girl eating the apple," she scoffed.

There was a loud slam, and everyone jumped, shut up, and turned their attention toward the white board in front. Mrs. Hall was giving the test. She was such a witch.

"Seats! Everyone seats!" she barked, dropping a heavy manilla folder on the front table, making the picture frames on it rattle.

The blonde girl next to him quickly took the empty seat despite the other girl's protests, and Mrs. Hall started to pass the exams down the long rows of desks. Lane took one, a heavy packet that was at least two hundred questions long.

"You have thirty minutes to complete the exam," explained Mrs. Hall as she continued to pass out exams, walking in front of the class. "If you miss more than three, you automatically fail."

Lane flipped through the packet. All the questions were short answer.

"This is easy," he heard Francis mutter.

Everyone's heads were bent down, pencils scribbling, erasers squeaking. Lane looked down at the first question. A piplup and turtwig are resting in Professor Rowan's laboratory in Sandgem, he read. Assuming these two, for some reason, start to fight, how fast is the train going if powered by the Valley Windworks generator?

Next question. Explain the benefits of the steel type pokémon when fighting a poison type. How would this help if your house was on fire?

Third question. Your parents are fighting again. Why? Use rope.

It was at this point Lane heard someone "psst!"-ing him, and he snapped his head to the right and glared at the blonde girl. "What?" he whispered back furiously.

"Lemme see your test. I have no idea what number four is," she replied quietly.

"No. We'll get in trouble," he hissed back.

"Lane!" yelled Mrs. Hall from the front desk, slamming a book shut that made the class jump again. "Are you cheating?"

"No, ma'am," Lane denied, wringing his pencil in his hands. "This stupid girl here keeps buggin' me about–"

"Up front! And bring your test!"

He had to. So he did. She ripped the test in front of him.

"Try again next year," she said with a wicked grin.

**. . .**

"Let's not think of this as a day of failure. Let's think of it as a day of ... of ..." Dawn bit her lip and wrinkled her nose. "A day of ... something that isn't failure."

Lucas didn't reply as she sat on the opposite side of the campfire, the flames illuminating his face in a warm, orange glow. Dawn sat cross-legged in a patch of long grass, the blades tickling her calves. She was fiddling with something in her hands, watching as Lucas, with his head lowered, flicked through his pokédex, examining the photographs his honchkrow had captured with the camera.

It certainly wasn't a day of failure for her. It was such a pretty day. It was such a pretty island. The colors were vibrant. Wild flowers were everywhere. And there were these pretty pink, blue, and yellow feathers scattered across the island, some stuck in bushes, others dancing with the breeze. She caught a few for herself, and she was busy trying to tie them together so she could clip them to a key chain ring. It would make such a lovely accessory for her bag. The colors of the feather matched it nicely.

If Lucas was too busy examining the pictures, she would spend her time examining the forest. Trees. Lots of trees that towered over them. They found a nice clearing where the thick canopy didn't block their vision from the night sky above. The moon was partially hidden behind some clouds. The stars were bright. She connected a few together. She knew nothing about constellations and what they were called when they were connected together, but she knew stars were pretty. And that's all that matters, isn't it?

The thick trees managed to block out most of the chilly wind, which was good, though it still managed to make the flames from the fire flicker, sending up bright cinders that floated away freely before dissipating into nothing. They reminded her of lightning bugs. She remembered trying to catch lightning bugs in empty jelly jars when she was little, but then she felt bad when she caught a few. Her favorite part was releasing them and watching them fly out of the jar in a tizzy as they scattered across the field and tricking her eyes into believing that they, too, were the pretty stars.

She wasn't sure what Lucas was expecting out of today. He didn't seem to have high hopes of doing anything today, though she knew he didn't want to stay here long either. They were wandering, walking about with no idea of where to go, what to do, or if even being here had importance. They also flew in tizzies. They were the lightning bugs.

She knew it bugged him, this aimless wandering, this vague idea, this almost pointless expedition. She could tell with his constant nagging of, "Are you sure there's nothing more in that book?" and, "There has to be _something_ more." But there wasn't. They were here on a whim. A fairy tale. A myth. And god, that bugged him. She knew this well.

Dawn connected the feathers to her keyring while licking her lips. "Lucas?" she asked tentatively as she gently petted the set of feathers in her hand. "Are you busy?"

She heard him mutter something to himself. He finally looked up, the flames reflecting in his blue eyes. "What?" he asked over the crackling.

Dawn stretched her legs out, staring at the tops of her boots, and pulled her bag onto her thighs. "Remember how I said you could ask me anything if I could ask you anything back later?" She hooked the key chain to her bag's zipper, admiring the feathers as they swayed. She placed her bag back next to her and leaned back on her hands, gazing into the fire. She could feel the heat burn her eyes (or was that from fatigue?), but the heat the fire gave off felt so good on her skin, especially after wandering around in the cold for so long.

It took him a while to respond with a reluctant, "Yeah."

"I would like to use it now." She grinned, sitting up, drawing hearts in the dirt with her pointer fingers. The grains started to roll up and get caught under her nail beds.

Lucas turned his attention back to the open pokédex resting in his lap, using his finger to flick through the photos lazily. "Fine. Ask."

She took her time, trying to phrase her question properly as she continued to draw hearts, sometimes initialing them with D's and L's. "How come you don't like stories?"

"Stories?" he repeated, not looking up, his neck strained. He shifted his legs to get comfortable, wrinkling the sleeping bag underneath him.

Dawn's noticed a longer feather she had found on her exploration next to her thigh. She held it up by the shaft. It had the same colors as the ones she had connected to her key chain ring, but something in this feather's barb glimmered whenever light hit it at a certain angle. "Yeah. Remember that one night you freaked out on me in the library when I first discovered the darkrai story?" she replied, her eyes starting to cross over the closer she brought the feather to her nose.

Lucas placed his pokédex next to his thigh and uncrossed his legs, letting his socked feet rest closer to the fire to warm up his toes. "That day was rough for both of us," he said, "in different ways."

Dawn dropped her hand and carefully placed the long feather in a side pocket of her bag. "I know. But you just seemed to ... snap when I brought it up. So why? Why do you not like myths?"

Lucas dug the heels of his feet into the dirt, not caring that he was dirtying his white socks. He found an odd pleasure feeling dirt grind underneath his feet. "I don't think it's that. I don't think I dislike myths."

"No?"

"I mean ... Well ... I guess I do. But not for the reason you think, I think." He frowned, brow furrowing. "They cause trouble. For everyone. They dilute the truth. But people are more apt to believe stories. It bothers me in a way. You spend all the time with your study, and you try to get it published, and you try to educate others in your study, but they're quick to refute it with some story, some rumor, that they heard from their neighbor. 'I heard this, Lucas. So that can't be right.' Things like that."

"I don't think you can blame storytelling for that." Dawn pulled the ends of her jacket's sleeves over her balled fists to keep them warm. She pulled her legs back toward her body and curled them underneath her rump. "Stories are one part telling, the other part interpreting."

"I get that," he murmured, carefully placing his pokédex next to his backpack behind him. He fumbled with the latch of his belt–his fingers were a bit numb from the nipping wind–but he managed to unclasp it, pulling the belt off and holding it up in the air, the six pokéballs clipped to it gleaming in the firelight. He placed it on top of his bag, letting the balls hang over the side. "I also get that they are important in telling a history that none of us were there to witness, so you can bypass that argument as well."

"I doubt that's why you get so antsy about them," she said skeptically.

"Twenty questions time is over," he replied, unzipping his sleeping bag and pulling up the cover so he could slide in. His head hit his pillow as he lay down. After throwing the cover back over his body, Lucas pulled his hands out and laced them behind his neck, staring up at the stars.

"C'mon!" she whined while swiftly moving her hands forward, erasing her hearts. "You said you would answer anything if I answered what you asked earlier, and you didn't answer what I asked even though I answered what you asked, and that's not fair! I want my answer!"

"Mind unscrambling that tangent for me?"

"Answer me!" she demanded again. "Be honest! And truthful!"

Lucas heaved out another annoyed sigh. "'Why do I dislike myths?'" he reiterated slowly. He paused. He thought. He answered. "I dislike how ... simplified they are."

He didn't expect her to respond, so he continued, his gaze focused on the sky. "I dislike how people–people who have no idea of what actually happened–are able to take an event and simplify it into a condensed version for the sake of storytelling. There are always parts missing, questions unanswered, feelings unaddressed, in order to make a tale more compelling ..." He rolled over to look at her. "And instead of objectivity, you end up with half-truths that ignite some extreme form of emotion for the sake of emotion. It's usually fear, and that fear gets passed on, and no one ends up doing anything about the subject matter. It makes people lazy. They become stagnant, fulfilled with what they were told."

He watched as Dawn brushed her hair behind her shoulders. "And that is why I dislike myths," he finished. "'Honestly and truthfully.'"

Dawn stared back, their eyes locked in battle. He lost; he blinked away, awkward. "So if that's true, why did you decide to go along with my idea?" she asked thoughtfully after a few seconds of silence.

He rolled onto his back, pulling his arms into the safety of his covers. "You seem like you want to do something about it," he said quietly. "Do I believe it? I don't know. I don't think I do. In fact, I'm not entirely sure why we're here. But you're determined, and you honestly care. You're trying to change things, and I respect that even if I don't like it."

"And how could you say no to this face?" she teased.

He groaned. "Good night," he said, closing his eyes.

"Good night, Lucas," she said with a smile as the boy settled into his sleeping bag. She couldn't help but stare at him enviously. It wasn't the best looking sleeping bag. Years of travel managed to rough it up, and she had no idea if Lucas washed it at all with all the dried mud caked on top of the blue, waterproof material. She could make out the flannel insides from here, a checkered pattern of green and red, and it, too, looked pretty worn down and flat. Still, it was better than having a coat as a blanket and a bag as a pillow. But she was a tough girl! She could rough it for a night ... or two. God, she hoped they wouldn't be there for a week.

She moved her bag a little and started to lay down, resting her head on the top of it. The back of her head could feel its contents: there was her brush to her left, the myths book on the bottom. The empty bag of chips she had devoured earlier crinkled with each move of her head. Whose bright idea was this? Why did she come? Sure, the stars were pretty. The forest was pretty. She found pretty feathers. And she was all alone with Lucas. But darn it all. This wasn't what she had in mind. She didn't like the itchy feel of grass under her legs. She didn't like that she had to take off her boots every half hour to empty it of dirt. And she definitely didn't like the leaves that got tangled in her hair – or her hair being tangled period. The back of her mind (stupid conscious) kept telling her it was worth it, though. It's for Lane, it's for Lane, it's for Lane, she repeated in her head. It's for Alyson, too, and Eldritch. It's for the entire family. It is worth it.

It is not, she argued back. I am tired, hungry, and cold.

But it could help Lane!

Says the thing in the warmth of my mind. Or brain. Head. Somewhere.

It's actually pretty cold and empty in here.

... Did I just insult myself?

Lucas had shifted himself so he could look at Dawn through squinted eyes. She was lying on her back, face scrunched up in cold. Or was that her annoyed-while-thinking face? They both looked the same. Her scarf was wrapped around her arms, the ends tied around her fingers. Her palms laid flat on her stomach. He could see her legs were crossed at the knee, her thighs shivering with cold. Good. It was her fault for not listening to him yesterday and not heeding his warnings earlier today.

You're such a jerk, said Guilt.

Fuck you, said Logic. Still, Lucas. Do the right thing.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his eyes. "Ugh. Fuck me," he said out loud. Too loud.

This made Dawn sit up, her eyes wide, her hair a mess. "Excuse me?" she asked incredulously.

He quickly sat up. "Nothing," he replied, agitated, his cheeks flushing. "Sleep with me. You're cold."

"I'm not doing _that_ to get warm!"

"I don't mean it like that!"

"Oh, and this is some clever way to get up my skirt?"

"No!" He fought the urge to slap his forehead. "I just don't want you to be cold and unable to sleep. It'll bug me, and I won't be able to sleep either. My sleeping bag is big enough for two. I won't touch you. Not purposely anyway."

Dawn pulled down on her skirt, her legs clenched tightly together. "Well ... okay. As long as you don't do any funny stuff, okay," she said tentatively, standing up slowly and leaving her bag on the opposite side of the campfire. She stood in front of Lucas, who had remained sitting, and looked down at him. "Do you have to watch me so creepily like that?" she complained after a few seconds of staring.

"I'm not doing anything," he argued.

"You're staring at me funny!"

"I'm not doing anything," he repeated.

"It's like you're just sitting there. 'Come hither, girl' is what you're saying by just sitting there."

"I _am_ just sitting here. I'm not sure where you're getting that message from. I'm not going to do anything."

She bit her lip. "Well ... All right." Dawn kicked off her boots and stood in her long, black socks. She used her leg to kick up the corner of the sleeping bag and rested her foot inside the covers. Lucas shifted as far as he could to the other side of his sleeping bag as Dawn sat down, her knees digging into the flannel fabric. She pulled off her hat and barrettes, her hair free to roam across her face. "Okay," she said, tucking her hair behind her ears and placing her hat above the pillow. "Ready?"

"Sure," he muttered, falling backward, his head hitting the pillow.

Dawn stretched her legs out and pulled the cover over them before snuggling next to Lucas, her head next to his, her hair spilling onto the pillow. She zipped up the sleeping bag to keep the warmth in. "Let's make things a bit more awkward," she said jokingly, turning toward him as Lucas lifted a hand out of the covers and pulled his beret over his eyes. "Wanna make out?"

"Go to bed." He groaned again.

Dawn smiled. "Sweet dreams, Lucas." She closed her eyes. Her breath tickled the side of his neck.

So stupid idea was stupid, he realized, pulling his hat back up. He cast his eyes up, watching the leaves rattle in the wind. He wasn't uncomfortable–the back of his mind kept reminding him that sharing a sleeping bag with Dawn was a necessity ... at least for her sake–but it was definitely weird. Lucas traveled alone for years, and having someone traveling with him, let alone in the same sleeping bag, was an idea, a place, he figured he'd never get to, at least not for a while. It was enough to keep him awake, this strange feeling. It felt a lot like hunger, actually.

He felt something nudge up against his left shoulder, and he turned his eyes toward the girl. Her knees were starting to curl up toward her stomach, and her arms were pressed tightly against her chest: fetal position. He knew the position well; he did it often when he was cold. Despite her heavy jacket and the body heat of two contained in a small space, she was still cold? Lord, people could not rough it these days.

"My nose is cold," she murmured sleepily, her eyes still closed. She nuzzled her nose against Lucas's shirt sleeve, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

"You don't say," he muttered back, his hand roaming outside the sleeping bag, feeling the ground for his pokédex. He hit something hard and plastic and picked up the device, scraping dirt into his fingernails. "Need my jacket?"

"No," she replied in the same sleepy tone.

"Lying?" He flicked open the cover of his pokédex and opened the photo application. If he couldn't sleep, he might as well use the time wisely.

"I'm not," she murmured. "I'm fine."

Without looking to the side, Lucas's slightly numb fingers managed to find the zipper of his backpack. He opened it, digging around while trying not to move his left side in order to leave the girl undisturbed. He pulled out his jacket, throwing it on top of the girl.

"Thanks." She sighed peacefully, starting to uncurl, her arms more relaxed. Her forehead continued to press against Lucas's shoulder.

"Mhm," he said, using his hand to flip through the pictures. Pictures of the shores, pictures of the tops of olive trees, pictures of clearings, of sand, of puddles, of sand in puddles (or was it puddles in sand?). On occasion, he saw a pokémon – wingull, mostly, sometimes crawdaunt. The wide clearings were the most suspicious to him; the branches were crushed and foliage littered the ground, stamped on. Something big made those.

Then there was the picture of Dawn and him. He was bewildered, his eyes wide and looking at something to the side of the camera while Dawn was staring straight into it, beaming. The wind lifted her hair up and behind her shoulders, the strands twisting together. Both of their eyes were alight with the sun.

You better not delete this. Dawn's warning echoed in his mind.

Lucas gave the picture a final look–the strange feeling inflating in his stomach and forcing him to burp quietly–before clicking shut his pokédex and placing it next to his bag. He looked at the moon. The silhouette of something fast flew above them. A bird most likely. He saw it fly by again, this time slower and this time radiating an electric blue from what Lucas assumed to be its eyes. Foresight, he thought, in order to help it see through the dark and look for food. Perhaps it was attracted by the campfire.

Readjusting his jacket so it spread further across Dawn's body, Lucas closed his eyes, and fell, quite quickly, into a deep slumber.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**A/N: **Hi! This chapter really needs warning, hopefully without me blurting out what's up ahead. The Lucas/Dawn scene in this chapter is … Let's just say I took full advantage of the PG-14 rating, specifically the sexual material/innuendo part. It's nothing super detail and doesn't go too far, but I know that stuff can make people uncomfortable, if not giggly with awkwardness. I promise it'll make sense once you get over that initial … bump (you'll know it when you see it, trust), especially if you hit puberty.

AND AFTER THAT, wear a helmet, ahoy! It's definitely the "violent imagery" part of the rating. Likewise, it's nothing too detailed but it can be upsetting. That or I'm really sensitive. Something. There is blood but nothing gory.

Oh, and it's more cuss happy than usual. Blame Eldritch. And Lucas.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Fight or flee. When your life and the lives of others are on the line, your brain–or is it your gut?–gives you little time to process the situation before presenting these two options. In retrospect, the people who flee tell us they were able to weigh out the pros and cons before deciding to run. For example, some state that they are trained in first aid. Surely if they stayed, they could have gotten seriously injured, and what good will they be then? Others know when a fight is futile; I don't blame them for that. When you ask why the people who fight, well, fight, the most common answer is something like, "It felt like the right thing to do." People call them heroes. Or maybe they're morons. Lucky morons. Lucky, heroic morons.

I don't say this to insult others, the fleers or the fighters. What you do is up to you. I say it to sympathize with those who left me alone to fight when they knew I desperately needed help. I understand why now, but I'm still angry. I know I'll forgive them one day – I have to. It just might not be soon.

...

Behavior: Careful but quick to action when under threat. Often pries into dangerous or unwanted territory but with good intention. At times, forgetful. Smarter than she appears.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

He wasn't expecting her to still be awake, let alone awake and still dressed in her daytime clothes, sitting on the couch. Her legs were crossed at the knee, her right foot shaking, her sandal making a "THWACK THWACK" noise when it hit the back of her foot. The television wasn't on, and the only light on was the hanging lamp above the kitchen table. She wasn't distracted by the mundane right now; her sole focus was on her husband.

Alyson leaned back into the leather couch, raising her eyebrows for a second. She poked her tongue against the side of her cheek, her mouth partially opened. "Where were you?" she asked, forehead wrinkling.

"The pub," he muttered, stamping his shoes on the welcome rug outside before entering the quiet house. He closed the door behind him and locked it. "I needed a drink. It's only thirty minutes past one."

"Where were you this afternoon?" she specified, uncrossing her legs, pressing her thighs together tightly. She wrapped her fingers around her thighs and squeezed.

"I took Lucas and Dawn to Fullmoon." He shook off his coat and hung it around his arm. "You know the darkrai myth? They think – actually, I think it's only the girl. But, uh, they think that darkrai may have something to do with Lane's condition. Cresselia is darkrai's counterpart, and it is rumored she lives on that island, so ..."

She gave him a look of disbelief.

"Well, c'mon," he muttered. " At least it's a trail. I'm wary about it, too, but at least it's _something_."

"It's not that," she replied after a sharp exhale.

Eldritch strode across the room to sit in the armchair next to the couch, sitting at an angle so he could look into Alyson's face. He placed his coat next to him. He didn't respond.

"You don't remember what we were suppose to do this afternoon?" she said after a few seconds of silence.

He opened his mouth, front teeth scraping against his bottom lip as he let out a deep sigh.

"My appointment," she answered for him. "Remember now?"

Eldritch closed his eyes and gripped the arms of the chair, the leather crinkling underneath his grasp. A knot built up in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down, resulting in him producing a phlegm that he choked back down with a few coughs. He let out another deep breath. "I know."

"You _knew_?"

He nodded, and she began to yell. What the heck, Dan? You knew this was important to me – it should be important to both of us, but nooooo, you were too busy trying to be young and an adventurer. Our kid is in the hospital, Dan, and no one knows why, and you just go off on some little adventure? I mean, for Arceus' sake, we're not twenty anymore. We have a family now. I ask you for one little thing, and you can't do it? I need your help sometimes; I need your support. I can't ...

Alyson's voice grew higher in frequency and speed, and the original point of the argument–him walking in late, him getting drunk instead of meeting her at the hospital, whatever the fuck it was–merged with her weekly bitchery that listed all of Eldritch's problems. It would be so easy–at least in her opinion–if he followed her solutions. Everything, essentially, was his fault. And she was always right. ALWAYS (apparently).

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry. I guess."

Alyson inhaled deeply, held it, and exhaled slowly. She looked down, a finger wrapping around a loose thread on her skirt. "That's it?" she murmured.

He leaned back in the armchair, hearing it groan under the pressure. "What else do you want me to say?"

Her eyes rolled to the side, staring at the empty kitchen rather than her husband. "I dunno," she said, staring at the fruit basket that stood as the center piece of the kitchen table. "I figure what's the point? One of us always has a problem with another, and the other one says they'll try to work on it, but we always end up here, you stumbling in like a drunk or me freaking out on Lane." She turned her head back toward her husband, not smiling but not angry either. "You don't get it, do you?"

Brown eyes flicked themselves up, staring at the ceiling fan that circulated air throughout the living room. "'I wish you were home more,'" he repeated. "'It's hard to be by myself. I miss you. I never see you anymore.'"

Her nose wrinkled. "You really don't get it. This isn't about you or me anymore."

"Yes, I've heard that before, too." He sighed. "'This is about our family–'"

"Stop. No." Alyson held an arm up and closed her eyes. "Look. You're a great father. You love your son, and the kid loves you so much. But do you even know him?" She crossed her arms. "I get it. You have to go out and work – you don't know when you're going to be called or how long you're going to be out at sea. I appreciate all you have to sacrifice in order to provide for us. It's just ... You being gone, sometimes without him knowing, is hard enough. He's not stupid – he knows we've been fighting. That's just making things worse."

Eldritch stared past Alyson's head and toward the hallway.

"I mean, he doesn't keep his door open because he's afraid of the dark, Eldritch. He's afraid that he might not hear you leaving. And when you are gone, he wants to know as soon as possible when you come through that front door. It _kills _me to see him like that."

"I wasn't expecting to be here." He couldn't look Aly in the eye. "Things happened too early, too fast. But I _fucking _try my best, Aly. I want to see him."

"But not ... me."

"Aly–"

"It's time one of us addressed the elephant in the room," she murmured, running her fingers up and down the leather cushion. "We're both ... different. Well, we were always different, but those differences used to work together so well. We both want vastly different things now. We're both in different places."

"Different," he mocked.

"Great time to be a wise-ass," she muttered.

"Sorry."

"I am, too." Alyson stood up and straightened out the wrinkles in her blouse, Eldritch's eyes following her. She put her hands on her hips. "You were always an adventurer, Eldritch, and nothing I can say or do will ever change that. It's why I love you and hate you at the same time." At this, she bit her lip and gazed at her husband uncomfortably. "I don't think this is working out. Do you?"

He paused, still sitting in the chair, his throat dry. He knew what she meant with this vague statement, but he didn't want to agree. He didn't want to beg, or fight, or yell, or cry, or ... anything. "I ..." His voice was hoarse and almost cracked as he saw tears begin to build in Alyson's eyes.

"I ... I feel like you're leaving us behind. I feel like we're holding you back." She wiped at her eyes, moistening her fingers. "That's how you feel ... isn't it?"

_Tied down with wife and child ... Wasn't that the reason he became a sailor, to travel? To escape that?_ He knew that would bite him in the ass.

"He loves you so much, Dan. I just wish you were here more for him. And now that you're actually here for him, he's not even aware of it." She shook, head bowed down. Tears streamed down her cheeks, making strands of brown hair stick to her face.

"Aly." He stood up, but Alyson backed away, standing behind the couch. He wrung his hands together, legs shaking. "I love you. I really do."

"I know you do. And I love you, too." She looked up after sniffling loudly, her teary eyes strangely fierce and fiery. "But I really think we need to think about this. Like you said, things happened too fast, too early. I know this, and so do you. Life doesn't work out the way you hoped it would." She walked toward the hallway and stood at its entrance, gripping the corner where the two walls met.

"By the way," she added, not turning around. "I'm not pregnant." She released the wall from her grip before heading down the hallway.

He stood there, staring down the empty corridor.

"... Oh."

**. . .**

The sound of a twig snapping in the forest awoke Lucas. His eyelids flicked open quickly, eyes straight up toward the night sky. His vision was hazy around the borders; it felt like he had just dropped to the ground after spinning in circles for a minute straight. He turned his head–god, why did his fucking head feel so heavy?–and glimpsed at Dawn. She was still curled up next to him, her mouth partially open as she breathed in and out softly. Her forehead was pressed up against his upper arm, one of her hands squashed under her head and the other pressed against her chest. Her legs were curled into her, her calves pressing against Lucas's thigh.

He tried to remain still, part so he wouldn't wake Dawn but mostly because he was sure something–someone–was out there, watching, waiting, and ready (to kill him, to bake pie, to knit sweaters, fill in your own verb-noun combination. Life is a list of Mad Libs). Pressing his entwined hands against his stomach, he listened intently. There, the crackling of a dying fire. Here comes the whistling sea breeze, sweeping through the trees. Hoot, went the watchful noctowl. More focus, Lucas. There's the sea, rolling back and forth across the shore in a lulling motion. Push, and pull, and push, and pull ...

Sleep, dear child. Close those pretty blues, lovely child. Let Mother Nature and her tender breath cool your hot brow. Think of your past, those delicious memories. Think of your mother. Remember when the two of you used to bake cookies for your class when you were younger? Remember how you loved licking the spoon that stirred the batter? Ah, my child, I see it. I see you smuggling chocolate chips into your pockets only to realize they melted later that night. Let me taste them. Give me a little lick, a small bite. I need this. I need you. I am not asking for much, sweet boy. I have nothing against you, dear boy. I just want a taste.

It's not like I'm going to _KILL _you or anything.

Lucas inhaled sharply, his eyes opening again. Another snap – the sound of a twig breaking in half, followed by hurried footsteps. It was this, the sound of crunching foliage, the scattering of feet, that finally made Lucas pull his hands out of the warmth of his sleeping bag, grab his pokéball belt with his left hand, and roll over on top of Dawn to grab the bucket of water, throwing its contents onto the remnants of the fire. Smoke spiraled up lazily from the pit.

This awoke Dawn who snorted then let out a few coughs. "What are you doing?" she hissed once she composed herself as Lucas placed the bucket back on the ground. She tried to roll onto her back, but Lucas's weight had pinned her down, his chest pressing against her arm. She managed to push her shoulders back, causing Lucas to lift himself up, his hands on both sides of her head. He pulled himself up onto his knees, the top half of the sleeping bag pressing against his lower back.

"I heard something earlier and it woke me up, I think," he whispered. "Actually, I'm not sure. That could have been a dream. But I heard it again." He curled his fingers, scraping dirt back into his palms. "You didn't hear it?"

"No ..." she said slowly as she rolled onto her back, staring him straight in the face. She pulled her arms out of the sleeping bag and let them rest above her head, bent at the elbow with her palms skyward.

"I threw the water on the fire just in case it was attracting wild pokémon," he explained as Dawn raised her right hand and lifted the brim of his beret. She ran her fingers softly down his cheek before wrapping them gently around the back of his neck. It sent shivers up his spine, whether it was from the cool touch or Dawn touching him period. She didn't seem to notice his nervousness, lowering her eyes so that all Lucas could see was the top of her eyelids and her long eyelashes.

Dawn started to rub the back of Lucas's neck in small, circular motions. "You look so tense," she said, fingers gliding down toward his left shoulder and squeezing it. Her other hand trailed down the front of his shirt, feeling his chest through the thin material. "Stop worrying. Nothing's out there. Relax." Her gaze shifted upward to peer into his bewildered face.

He had to focus, but it was hard to do so. He was butter under Dawn's fingertips, melting under the warmth of her touch, the intensity of her fiery gaze. Reality was in his left hand, the leather pokéball belt he was slowly losing his grip on the further Dawn massaged his shoulders. It was awkward–tenfold more than usual–with him hanging above her, elbows straight, knees to the side of her thighs, and her kind of just … lying there, eyes, bright blue, alight from the moon. Her hair was sprawled out across the pillow, messy, strands twisted and tangled together. He had the urge to stroke her hair and brush it off of her face; and he almost did so, releasing his belt from his grip, only to realize what he was doing. He thought quickly, playing it off like he had to scratch his nose.

Focus, he reminded himself, placing his hand back on the ground. For Arceus' sake, focus. Something might be nearby, and he needed to listen, not be attracted by Dawn's squirming body underneath him, the slight pout of her full lips, the power of her bright blues – FOCUS, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. If you don't, you might die, and dying isn't good. (And if you die, you can no longer play Mad Libs.)

A cold wind, carrying the scent of the salty ocean, swept across his back and entered the forest, rustling the foliage with a pleasant clattering noise. It was a relief, this cold wind, not because Lucas was feeling uncomfortably hot but because cold, as he learned, was Dawn's weakness. He felt her hands start to weaken, her massage in slower rolls. For a few seconds, he thought he was in the clear as she pulled her hands away. She's retreating, was his thought, retreating into the warmth of the sleeping bag. Yes. He was going to win.

... Wait, why is that a good thing again? Dawn is ... decent looking, no? Plus she was comforting, admittedly, and he liked massages. (The blunt translation: You idiot, there's a hot chick underneath you that seemingly wants to do _something_. Are you five shades of stupid?)

Another noise sounded, this time from within the campsite. Something was unzipping – slowly, too, where it creaked and ticked. There, again: the sound of rustling, the movement of legs. There was another quick puff of wind, this time man-made. Dawn had thrown open the cover of the sleeping bag. His back was exposed to the wilderness, and it left him feeling – holyshitholyshitholyshit. Her leeeegs. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him down roughly. His hips crashed into hers and hers immediately lurched up.

"Fuck ..." he breathed out.

She brought his face close by lacing her hands behind his head, crossing her legs at the knee. "Hi," she said sweetly, her breath hot on his clammy skin, before kissing him. It was gentle at first, her bottom lip snug between his, but he wanted more, and apparently so did she, so it got hotter and heavier. He licked her lips, urging, begging her to part those sweet lips, and she complied, her tongue meeting his and battling for dominance. Her legs wrapped around him tighter – god, she was so _fucking_ hot right now. He rolled them over in a wild tangle of limbs and hair so that she was on top of him. His arms wrapped around her lower back. She pulled away and looked down at him, hair draping around the sides of her face.

"Say it," she said, pulling off his hat to run her hands through his hair soothingly. She pressed her forehead against his, their lips brushing together. He felt his heart leap when she stared into him.

"No," he replied, squirming, legs shaking.

"Say it," she demanded again, gripping his hair tighter, which made him yelp. She loosened her grip a bit as she kissed him on the lips, then on the cheek, before sliding down to kiss him on the side of his neck. She stayed there, her head nuzzled in the crook of his neck, her forehead pressed against the side of his face. She flicked her tongue softly against the skin, once, twice, then there was a particularly sharp nibble–

"Daaa ..." he managed to choke out.

She lifted her head. "Say it," she ordered, an eyebrow raised. "All of it."

"No," he argued. "I'm not ... I'm not weak." He glared at the night sky, trying to avoid her gaze. "I'm not a little kid. You gotta do better than that."

She continued to lick and nibble at his neck softly, his breath getting caught in his throat before releasing itself in a low grumble. "Say it," she whispered into his ear seductively before gently biting his earlobe.

It took all of his willpower to stay calm, his body shaking. "No," he breathed out heavily.

She brought her head up and glowered. Her eyes were blinding and blue.

You stubborn brat. SAY IT.

"I told you." He grinned at something. Why he was feeling so goddamn smug all of a sudden, he didn't know. "Make me."

The girl smirked back. "I'll make you freaking _scream _it." She kissed him hard again, her legs wrapping around one of his, and grinding into his thigh, and he let out another audible groan through the kiss. Her tongue pushed its way through his lips and overtook him. Her hands released their grip from his hair and trailed down his chest, sending an icy hot sensation running through his veins and concentrating in a particular area below his waist. More unzipping sounded. She pulled away from the kiss, and he stared at her pleadingly as she brought her hand up, licked her fingertips, and brushed them against his lips before moving her hand back down, pushing back layers of denim, then cotton, then–

Another urgent, pleading, pleasure-filled cuss as her hot touch met something that was equally hot, and from his mouth he uttered:

"Daaarkrai."

"What?" asked Barry as he swallowed his mouthful of apple. Juice dribbled down the sides of his mouth. He wiped at it with the back of his hand and proceeded to wipe his now wet hand against the front of his pants. Barry threw the remaining apple core into a nearby metal garbage can. He swung his legs forward, gripping the fence tightly in his hands, staring at his worn-down sneakers.

"Huh?" Lucas replied, scratching the side of his nose. "I didn't say anything."

"I swear you did."

"I didn't say anything," he repeated.

"Right. Well, let's get on it then." Barry hopped off the fence, feet sinking into the snow. He flung one end of his scarf around his shoulder. "Why did we stop here again?"

Was it a little pathetic to say that he missed Barry? The kid was impatient and got distracted easily, but that's the reasons why the two of them worked so well together. They balanced each other out. Lucas was calm and quiet; Barry was eccentric and loud. Even with these differences, Barry was the only kid that really got him. They had been best friends since they were in grade school, for crying out loud. They started their journey on the same day, pretty much. They were both trainers, bound together by that simple fact, but it was more than that. Barry was pretty much his brother. (He couldn't figure out who was the older one. Lucas appeared to be the more mature one, and he was born a few months before Barry, but Barry was the one that gave Lucas advice, whether intentionally or not.)

He used this to his advantage, Barry's ability to get distracted by nearly anything, in order to stop time for a little bit. Literally, all he said was, "Holy crap, it's snowing!" and it dived into some snow war. Later, they got hungry and decided to eat apples Lucas had produced from his bag. Admittedly, it probably wasn't the best time to stop and get distracted – shit was going at the lake, and Rowan demanded them to get there ASAP.

Life had been giving Lucas the short end of the stick lately. Actually, it was more of a give-and-take situation. For everything good that happened in his life–new gym badge, new pokémon, what have you–something bad happened. He tried to avoid it, sure, but someone would drag him back down. Hell, he was only dropping by Canalave for a gym battle – he wasn't expecting to run into Rowan and that one girl that hung around him all the time. And he definitely wasn't expecting there to be a big explosion that set off a new series of events.

But here they were, somewhere cold. Lucas had to constantly move his fingers to make sure they didn't freeze over. He looked up; it was snowing lightly, adding to the already thick blanket on the ground. A flake landed on his nose, and he stared at it, going cross-eyed.

"Um, hello?" Barry waved a hand impatiently in front of Lucas's face, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Let's gooo already!" He ran ahead, leaving footprints in the snow, leaving Lucas far behind. He continued to watch Barry as he ran through a grove of pine tree. Lucas shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked after him, following the trail of footprints.

A burst of flames came from the grove, and Barry and his infernape were sent skidding back, blasting up snow. Barry hit the fence posts hard, though Lucas could still see him moving, one of his hands rubbing the back of his head. The top of Infernape's head melted the snow surrounding them. The two of them stuck out against the white snow with Barry's white-and-orange striped shirt and Infernape's flames.

"Barry!" Lucas cried. "Are you okay?" He started to run over, one hand stretched out, but something locked around his legs and pulled him down. He fell onto his stomach, his arms spread out to his sides, and he felt them get locked down as well. He looked. Ropes had sprung from the ground and tied him down.

Where do you think you are going, child? You think you are in control here?

Lucas struggled against the bindings, but it was to no avail. All he could move was his head. "Barry!" he called out again before gritting his teeth. "I'm still here, Barry!"

He cannot hear you.

Barry let out a loud groan, running a hand through his blond locks, shaking out snow. He slowly got up, his pokémon following suit, and glared into the snowy thickets where a curvy woman with purple hair appeared.

"How silly," she said, heading toward the shaking Barry, her hips swinging as she walked. A skunktank followed after her, growling, her tail partially hiding her eyes. "I have no idea why you're here, child, but I sure as hell will make you regret it! Skunktank!" She snapped her fingers, and the pokémon jumped ahead of her. "Flamethrower!"

Barry, despite his efforts, had fallen back into the snow, kneeling with one hand pressed against his chest. With one eye twitching, he managed to pant out a command: "Dodge and Blaze Kick!"

The skunktank, while running and kicking up snow in her wake, opened her mouth. A jet of bright orange flames streamlined toward Infernape, but Barry's pokémon quickly jumped into the air, dodging the fire. His right foot was ablaze in flames as he descended toward the ground and his opponent. Skunktank had stopped in her tracks and looked up to watch the infernape fall.

"Poison Jab!" was her trainer's command. Skunktank raised herself onto her hind legs, her two forelegs glowing in purple energy.

The two attacks collided, and although the kick was enough to scorch the skunktank's fur, the power behind her Poison Jab was enough to throw Infernape off and toward the side in a heavy heap. The pokémon rolled over a few times, snow caking around him, before stopping, unmoving, the flames on his head retreating into his body.

"Infernape!" Barry managed to choke out before coughing up blood and phlegm, spitting it onto the ground. The blood sunk into the snow, but the red was still quite visible. Barry had dropped onto all fours, his head bowed down.

He had to try again, still struggling against his bounds. "Barry! She's coming!" Lucas shouted, his throat vibrating. His hands were frostbitten; it felt like thousands of tiny needles were poking at his fingers, but he didn't care, fighting and squirming and grabbing the snow in his hands. "Let me go!"

You brought this on yourself. No one asked you to come here.

The woman had returned her skunktank and walked toward Barry, not before giving his fallen infernape a kick to his stomach. This made both Barry and Lucas yell loudly. She seemed to get a thrill from their reaction, so she kicked the pokémon again.

"Stop it!" Lucas shouted.

You do not seem to get it, do you?

"Barry!" he cried out again. The woman was closer, inches away from his fallen friend.

Everyone needs to survive. This is what I do to survive. It is how I was designed. People think I bear ill will. No. I am simply trying to live. Not everything is pretty. Sometimes you have to do ugly things in order to survive. Everything is layered. Things are not simply bad or good.

I thought you of all people would understand that.

"No ..." Lucas felt tears well up in his eyes as the woman pulled a handgun from behind her back. The white sky made the metal gun glint. It was almost blinding to look at.

Perhaps I was wrong.

She squeezed the trigger, and he squeezed his eyes shut. There was a loud bang, and he heard a flocks of starly fly from the pine trees, chirping in fear.

It all started with starly. I know this well.

Lucas refused to open his eyes even though tears were squeezing their way past his eyelids and dropping into the snow.

I can take this away. All you have to do is say it.

He opened his eyes. Through his tears saw the dead form of his friend and the shades of red deepening the white snow. From his mouth he uttered:

"Darkrai."

"Hi!" said Lane with a smile.

"Lane?" Lucas asked, confusion in his eyes.

"Detective Lane," Lane corrected, lowering the brim of his tan hat over his eyes. He smirked as he strode down the supermarket aisle, his long trench coat trailing behind him. Around his shoulders was a black cape tattered at the end. "We're detectives!" he shouted, throwing both of his arms in the air as he walked. "We're doing detective stuff! Remember? WE'RE DETECTIVES!"

Lucas jogged to catch up with him, pushing up the sleeves of his own trench coat that was two sizes too big for some reason. "Why did you have to yell it?" he asked.

"WHY NOT!" Lane spun in circles, his cape swirling around him, and let out a loud laugh. His hand almost knocked over a bottle of dishwasher soap, so he quickly stopped and grabbed the bottle before it fell to the floor. "You remember the mission?"

"Someone's stealing the floor cleanser in aisle nine," Lucas replied, rubbing his chin. He cocked his own hat over his eyes and grinned. "But why?"

The two of them exited aisle eight, which was the dishwasher aisle apparently, and into the open space, standing next to a bunch of purple candles in boxes. The fluorescent lighting was dim; some bulbs were complete blacked out or cracked. Still, it gave enough light for Lucas to examine the dusty old market: the floors were stained with something red and sticky, and the shelves were close to bare (except for the heavily stocked dishwasher aisle, where there was so many brands of dishwasher soap that it took up two entire aisles). Lane and Lucas stepped forward and hid behind a few boxes of cereal as they peered down aisle nine. The only person down the aisle was an elderly woman standing near an empty cart. She was short, wearing tattered brown clothing. A hood covered her head, though straggly strands of brown hair poked out, like twigs.

"I think she's one of them," Lane whispered. The elderly woman, with her wrinkly hands, grabbed a large bottle of Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser™, and placed it in her cart. She grabbed another bottle of Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser™ and stacked it on top. "C'mon!"

Lucas nodded. "Excuse me, miss," he said as he took wide strides to walk down the aisle. Lane had to half run, half skip to keep up with him. The elderly woman looked up, her arms wrapped around a big bottle of Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser™. "Do you mind if I take that bottle? I need one, and you seem to have plenty." He made a grab for the bottle, but the woman pulled away. She raised her hood a little, her pink eyes glaring at the two detectives.

"I know who you two are," she said in a creaky voice, hands laced together in front of the bottle of the Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser™. Lucas noticed her nails, a pattern of pink, blue, and yellow. "And you both need to get out of here before it gets too late. Go home."

"Give me the bottle," he demanded. "Give me the bottle of Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser ... er, TM." He made another swipe for it, but the old lady pulled away. She threw the bottle in the cart, turned around, and proceeded to bonk Lucas on the head with a closed fist.

"Stupid child. Don't say I didn't warn you," she murmured as she wheeled the cart in the opposite direction. She turned the corner, leaving behind a dazed Lucas and a giggling Lane.

"She got you good," Lane said with a wide grin.

"I think she's using the bottles to smuggle out–"

"Shh!" Lane warned, pointing up to a purple cup on the upper shelf. "I think we're being listened on."

Lane was too short to reach the shelf where the cup was, so Lucas grabbed it, kneeling over a bit so Lane could hear, too. They both held their ears to the cup.

"There's two of them in the aisle this time," they heard the elderly woman say. "The bigger, uglier one tried to take one of my bottles."

Lane stifled his laughter as Lucas rolled his eyes to the side. He placed the cup back on the shelf.

"Come on. She couldn't have gotten far," Lane said, brushing past Lucas. "We can catch up!"

I see you have met this child before. When you dream, you sometimes dream of people you have not met but only seen. He is interesting. His imagination is vivid and light. He is not tainted. He has not the experiences that you, dear boy, have had. I tried to sustain my need off of his darker energy–his fears, his worries–but he has none. What he dreads is nothing unusual for someone of his age. But my search continues; I will find something that will feed me.

"Lucas!" Lane was at the end of the aisle, waving at him. "This way!"

You are trying to save him. Is that correct?

Lane had turned the corner by the time Lucas had taken off behind him, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. His trench coat swished behind him.

I am sorry.

Lucas turned the corner and felt his breath get caught in his throat.

I cannot allow that to happen.

"Cyrus," he whispered, taking a few steps back as the older man advanced forward. Instinctively, Lucas reached for his belt, his hands roaming his side for his pokéballs. He couldn't find any. Alarmed, the boy took a few more steps backward before turning around fully and running for it. He turned his head. The Galactic leader, with his menacing stare, his furrowed brow, his mouth in a frown, ran – no, glided behind him.

He is _MINE._

The walls of the supermarket somehow disappeared, and he was running up a steep incline, pebbles grinding beneath his feet before rolling down the hill. He almost tripped, his hand scraping the ground, but he quickly picked himself up, gasping for air. The land began to level out; the dirt path had turned itself into cobblestone. Tall, stone pillars surrounded him, though they weren't holding anything up. His foot kicked a rock, letting it skip across the cobblestone until it collided with a pillar.

The end: he had reached a cliff. Lucas turned around and backed into a pillar, pressing against it as if he would somehow sink into it. The wind had picked up, blowing wildly and loosening Lucas's scarf from around his neck. It twisted and turned in the air until it got stuck around another stone column. Cyrus had stopped gliding and was walking toward him slowly, hands behind his back. His eyes were shining in the daylight, a bright, icy blue.

"What do you want? You took everything from me already!" Lucas yelled above the whistling wind, gripping onto the pillar. "I'm as messed up as you!"

Cyrus said nothing, continuing to walk toward him. From behind his back he pulled out a red chain that glinted and glared in the sun; it was almost blinding to look at. When he approached Lucas, he swung the chain in front of his eyes.

Is this him?

Cyrus walked behind the pillar and grabbed Lucas's hands. Lucas heard something rattle and snap. He tried to pull his arms away but found that he couldn't. Cyrus had chained him to the pillar using the red chain he had sought to make for so long. Lucas turned his head; his pokémon were there, clinging onto his heavy torterra. Honchkrow was flapping his wings against the wind as his claws dug into the tree that sat on top of the beast's back. Magmortar had slammed his feet into the ground in order to keep himself from falling over in the heavy wind, though one of his claw cannons was pressed against Torterra's side. The flames on his shoulders and head danced wildly. And there was sweet baby Riolu grabbing onto Torterra's right foreleg, his eyes clenched shut. He was the smallest, of course, and the most apt to be blown away. Cyrus had noticed them.

This is he who causes you the most distress to you, correct?

"Get out of here!" Lucas's voice was hoarse; he had to swallow a few times to build up saliva.

Honchkrow was the first to leave, spreading his wings and allowing the wind to take hold of him. Magmortor was next. His claws transformed into cannons, and he blew a bright ball of orange energy into the ground, creating a hole and jumping into it. Torterra, the lazy daydreamer, refused to move, beady eyes staring into him. Riolu was still gripped tightly around his leg.

"Get out of here, Torterra!"

The torterra glared back.

"Forget me! Leave! That's an order!"

The torterra blinked rapidly a few times and lifted a heavy foot, making Riolu squeak and let go. The heavy beast slowly turned around and walked away, fading away into the dust.

I see you have nightmares about him.

Riolu fell flat on his rump, red eyes blinking back tears. He said his name a few times before wiping at his cheeks and scrambling onto his feet, dirtying his black paws. His ears peeled back. Riolu noticed Lucas's scarf tied around the pillar. He smiled, dashing over to it and pulling it free, wrapping it around his arms.

"Riolu," he begged, pulling at the chain, but the chain held fast. "Forget me. Leave."

But I am not sure that he is what you fear the most.

Riolu only grinned and held the scarf out. He began to totter toward him, walking on the balls of his feet. He stood at Lucas's shoes and held his arms out, trying to give back the article of clothing Lucas had worn throughout his journey.

"I ..." Lucas pulled at the chain again, still unable to free himself. Since Lucas didn't reach out toward him, Riolu wrapped the scarf around Lucas's right ankle and curled himself on top of his shoes, closing his eyes and sighing peacefully despite the situation. "Thank you, Riolu."

Cyrus is what made you think about it, yes, but he is not the cause of it. I know what you are afraid of. You try so hard to hide it. That only makes it easier for me to find.

Something sharp bit at Lucas's ankle and stayed there, making him yelp. He looked down, and Riolu wasn't there; instead there was something gray and shapeless. The being turned his eyes–blue, wide, and cold–toward him and grinned. Blood oozed out between the castform's teeth, and Lucas felt himself being drained of energy. His back slowly slid down the pillar, and his vision was starting to get misty. The gray being released himself from Lucas's leg as the boy's bottom reached the ground. Lucas breathed heavily, taking in the heavy dust that coated the insides of his mouth.

You are afraid of losing them, the only beings in this world that stayed by your side no matter what. You are afraid of what you have been trying to seek out ever since you became champion.

You think you want to be alone.

The castform had transformed itself back into Riolu's shape, though his mouth was still bloody. He smirked.

"You're not scared, are you?" the riolu-castform being asked tauntingly.

No, child. That is not correct at all.

Lucas shook his head, panting. The blood from the being's bite had pooled around his leg and was slowly creeping toward him. It took most of his energy to raise his head and look toward the cloudy sky. The clouds were moving fast, like time was passing at a high speed.

You are _AFRAID_ of being alone.

"I'm not scared," Lucas said slowly. He coughed a few times; he saw specks of blood fly out with his saliva. He took in a few deep inhales of dusty air and exhaled once, loudly. Through his blurry vision, he saw Cyrus stand before him. He knelt to the ground so he could see eye-to-eye with the champion.

"I'm not fucking scared of you," he repeated firmly. "YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO DO BETTER THAN THAT!"

You are going to regret that, you stupid child!

Cyrus' body contorted, twisted, and his mouth opened and peeled back until fire burst forth and a demon released itself, white wisps of smoke surrounding his shapeless body. It opened its mouth, revealing its jagged, sharp teeth before zooming in toward the restrained trainer.

**. . .**

"Dream Eater!" she cried. "Again!"

Dawn's clefable fluttered her wings and raised both of her arms. Her eyes glowed a bright gold, and she brought her hands up. The energy traveled from her eyes to her hands and shot out, surrounding Lucas's head. It seemed to be working for a minute; the boy's distraught face started to relax and his limbs, pinned down by Dawn's hands and legs, stopped struggling against her hold. But then a black energy snapped back, crackling in the air and shooting back at the clefable, knocking her off her feet. Once more, the boy started to shake and murmur.

"Darkrai ..." he murmured through dry lips. "Darkraiii ... watching."

"Myth! Are you okay?" Dawn looked up worriedly from Lucas's shaking state to her pink pokémon. The clefable hopped back onto her feet and nodded firmly. She exhaled deeply, blowing up the curl on her forehead.

"Piiiip!" Dawn's piplup chirped frantically as he tried his best to restrain Lucas's flailing feet.

Dawn turned her head. "Oh, Pip. Myth, help him, please."

The clefable waddled over toward the penguin and pinned down Lucas's left foot with her hands as Pip used all of his weight to pin down the other foot. Dawn turned her attention back toward the boy beneath her, his arms pinned under her hands. His face went through a series of emotions, more than she had ever seen the boy expressed ever. Anger, happiness, sadness, confusion ...

"Lucas, wake up," she begged, collapsing on top of him and sobbing into his shoulder. "Please ... Please just wake up ..."

Something above her cried out, but she couldn't make heads-or-tails of what it was nor did she really care at the moment to try and distinguish it. Still, Dawn had pulled herself together and raised her head, staring into the night past the trees. There was another battle cry (this time, she could make out a flourished "Liaaa!" at the end), and she saw something overhead.

It was, dare she say, beautiful ... whatever it was, with the crescent moon as its backdrop. At first, she thought it was mesprit because of the pink, blue, and yellow color scheme, but the thing was too big to be mesprit, and this was one weird place for mesprit to be anyway. No, this thing was almost swan-like with long, slender features that curved together to form wings and a long neck connected to a pointed head. She didn't know; she couldn't really tell from down there. It seemed to be glowing, but Dawn figured that was a trick of the moon's eerie lighting. Something pink glinted. She figured that was the being's eyes. They were staring straight at her before resting on Lucas's body.

And like that, it took off, not before exclaiming another, "Liaaa!" Feathers. Lots of long feathers spiraled down toward Dawn, their bright colors visible in the moonlight. For a moment, everything was still except for these dancing feathers as they descended toward the campsite. Dawn felt her breath get caught in her throat as she watched them fall ever-so-gracefully, some getting caught in the tops of trees and some flying out toward the sea. Some of them managed to settle into their cozy campsite; a couple even fell on top of the sleeping bag. Dawn reached out and caught one with her hand. She observed it, holding it by the shaft. These were the same types of feathers she had collected earlier.

"Cresselia?" she questioned.

Her query went unanswered; no more battle cries echoed themselves through the trees, and no more feathers spun dizzily toward her. She sat up, looking toward Lucas, one hand still clutching the feather. Lucas groaned, and his eyes flickered open lazily.

Now, if this was one of Dawn's romantic fantasies, Lucas would have said something much more romantic. Something along the lines of, "Dawn, my love! Why are there tears in your eyes? Don't cry for me!" And he would sit up, wrap his arms around her and press his forehead lovingly against hers. But no. What was the first thing he uttered?

"Why are you sitting on me?"

She groaned. Lucas lifted his head but flinched and settled back down on the pillow. Dawn quickly scrambled off of him as Myth and Pip jumped off his legs and ran toward his head. The boy looked up toward the sky through half-opened eyes. Dawn could tell he was ready to crash again. She pulled the cover of the sleeping bag over the tired boy's body and sat next to him, legs curled underneath her. She ran a hand soothingly through his hair.

"Sleep," she whispered. The boy obeyed, closing his eyes. "I'm here. I'll take care of you. I promise."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

He was in my dream. It's been a while since I last dreamed of him. I almost forgot I dreamed of him until she brought it up. It came back to me like heavy patches of rain, quick thunderstorms that are gone as soon as you spot them. You remember the lightning; you don't remember when it started raining.  
Enter the waterworks. No, I'm not going to cry. But I feel like I should continue the water analogy.

It's weird.  
She read it. But I'm not mad.

Call it growing. Yes, me, growing. I was more surprised that I wasn't mad at her than being mad at her because she gets me mad over such stupid, trivial things. But this time I'm not mad. I think that's a good thing. I'm not sure if it's because I trust her more or because I trust myself more. Maybe it's both.  
Oh, the tangled web we weave. I don't know what I mean by that. I am rambling now. Letting it flow. Letting it free. Free as a bird.  
My mom told me to do that. She told me to let it go.  
I'm trying.  
Not there yet.  
Going to stop rambling now. Going to stop writing in incomplete sentences now.

...

Current position: Sitting and staring

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

"Hello, Mrs. Eldritch! My mom told me to bring you these!"

Julie pushed a plate of chocolate chip cookies covered in translucent green saran wrap into Mrs. Eldritch's startled arms. She smiled widely, cheeks scrunching up, lips pulling tightly upward, and nostrils flaring. She couldn't help but stare enviously at the plate. She helped Mom bake these last night, but the entire batch was for Lane's family. The smell of baked goods was just too intoxicating.

Mrs. Eldritch played with the plastic covering with her thumb and pointer finger, pressing it tighter against the back of the ceramic plate. "Uh, thank you, Julie," she replied slowly, uncertainly. She shifted the plate and balanced it on the flat of one hand, freeing her other hand so she could brush her bangs to the side. "Are you here to see Lane today?" She looked back at Francis for a quick second before returning her attention to Julie.

Julie nodded. "We won't be long," she said. "Me and Francis gotta go to the beach for our science project. It's on shells. Lane was in our group but–" She zipped her mouth shut when she noticed the grimace on Mrs. Eldritch's face.

"Nice one," whispered Francis into her ear. Julie suppressed her desire to jab Francis's gut with her elbow.

Mrs. Eldritch wiped at the bottom lid of her eye and rubbed at the corners. She tried to discreetly hide her sniffle by clearing her throat, but Julie knew better.

"Well, go ahead," Mrs. Eldritch said, heels clicking on the linoleum as she walked over to the nightstand and placed the plate of cookies next to a vase of dying, drooping flowers. "I need to run down to the lobby and make a phone call. Take your time, kids." She gave them a watery smile before walking past them and darting down the hallway, one hand pulling out the slim cellphone she kept in the back pocket of her jeans.

Francis waited until he couldn't hear Mrs. Eldritch's scurried feet. "Good job, Julie. You made her cry."

"Did not!" she protested. She spun around on the balls of her feet, her long pigtails whipping around her head, and glared at the smug boy. "She was crying before she got here. Her eyes were already red and stuff. Don't get all defensive over your girlfriend."

It amused her how Francis's face flushed through three shades of red at what she said. "You're ... g-gross, Julie!" he finally stuttered out.

Julie poked him in the gut much to his annoyance. "Whatever, Flan-Flan. I see how you look at her." She smirked, her eyes alight with amusement. "You like Lane's mo-om, you like Lane's mo-om!" she sang.

Francis clutched the white poster in his right hand, bending one of its corners in his grip. "Shut up! Do not! He'll hear you!" he argued. "And stop calling me that!"

"Sheesh. So defensive," she teased again. She stuck her tongue out at Francis blew a raspberry at her. "Anyway ..."

Julie and Francis focused their attention on the hospital bed in front of them. The bed had metal railings, and the sheets were stiff and white. The ends that hung over the side fluttered whenever the salty air blew through the room from the open window. Julie, with her hands clasped together in front of her, stared at Lane's sleeping form. He looked so peaceful, his chest rising and falling slowly. His big ole ears were sticking out past his hair like always. Poor elf, she thought.

"He's still alive, right?" Francis murmured. She heard him take a step forward; the bottom corner of the poster dug into the back of her left calve.

She wondered that herself. Lane looked just too peaceful, and if the sleeping boy didn't let out a mix of a grunt and gargle from his open mouth, she would have assumed he was dead, too. Julie took a few tentative steps forward herself, standing next to the heart monitor hooked up to Lane's body. She turned her head, watching the green line make mountains out of plateaus.

Her eyes flicked back over toward Lane as she slowly walked over and knelt on the wooden stool next to his bed. He was wearing a white shirt today, his arms to his side and outside the sheets. His fingernails were long and dirty. She couldn't help but notice all the scratch marks on his forearms; Lane always got a bruise or scrape or cut whenever they went out to play. She looked at his eyes – well, eyelids. They were closed, of course. He had long eyelashes, thick and black and slightly curled. Like a baby doll, she thought. She reached out and brushed the hair off Lane's forehead like she would her dolls and was surprised at how hot Lane's skin was. It was sweaty almost. She didn't know why.

"He has such a flat nose," she commented as Francis walked over and stood next to her, pressing the poster between his stomach and the metal railing. "I ..." Julie reached over and tugged lightly on Lane's left earlobe. Francis stared at her, bewildered.

"I ... I always wanted to," she said quietly.

"Issues, Julie, you have them," he muttered back. Francis pulled his foot back, his sneaker squeaking on the floor, and leaned his weight against the bar. Something creaked from the pressure. His hair caught the sun, making his blond locks look transparent. "Well ... now what?"

Julie heard the joints in her knees crack as she rocked back and forth on the stool. Her hands tugged at the bottom of her pigtails before she wrapped them around her pointer fingers. "Teacher said we should talk to him like he was awake," she remarked, scrolling her eyes to the top of the ceiling. "Except, you know, he won't really respond and all. She says we should keep him up on everything that has been going on."

Francis nodded. "Right." He grinned. "Guess what, Dumbo! Julie got hit in the face with a ball when we played dodge ball two days ago!"

Julie gaped then added, "Well, Flan-Flan peed on himself yesterday!"

"I told you! The water fountain messed up and got my pants wet!"

"Right. Directly in one circular spot. Right."

"It was the _water fountain_!"

"Is that what they call 'peeing your pants' now?" Julie smiled at the growl emitted from Francis's throat. She motioned toward the poster, and Francis pulled it up, handing it to her. She held it up, peeking around the sides. "Class made this for you, Laney," she said cheerfully. "See? It says, 'Get well soon!' Sarah G. wrote the block letters, and everyone else wrote their own little message around it." She reached over and pointed at a message written in a red heart. "I wrote this one! I'll let you read it later when you wake up."

Francis stuck his finger down his throat and mock gagged as Julie continued. "Class misses you, Laney. We had an assembly three days ago, and the entire class thought how funny it would have been if you ran down the aisles making fart noises with your hands like last time." She lowered the poster and stared at Lane sadly. She felt her stomach start to twist and knot, a salty saliva building up that was painful to swallow back down. "Please get well soon."

"Yeah, Lane. Class ain't the same without me and you pokin' fun at Ms. Hall. And without you, Julie always knows it's me pulling on her pigtails."

"So that was you," she said quietly. She shook her head, her pigtails whipping her in the face. "But yeah, Laney. We ... miss you. Everyone does." She felt her legs started to shake, so she lowered herself, propping the poster against the stool. It felt like her organs were on overdrive; her stomach was crazily churning like she hadn't eaten in hours and her heart felt like it was going to thump, thump, thump out of her ribcage.

Julie met Lane like all of her classmates did: in class, years ago, when they were little. Classmates changed, as did teachers, but she and Lane were always in the same class. They were only five at the time, but she knew when she looked at his big, ole elf ears, messy hair, and goofy smile that she and him were going to be best friends. He used to chase her around the playground with a handful of earthworms, part because he was teasing and part because they were "so cool, Julie!" but the older they got, the more it reversed. She had no idea why. It wasn't like she was chasing him with a handful of earthworms or anything. She just wanted to play "house" is all.

She missed Laney. Laney is such a funny, funny boy, and he knows how to make her smile even when she's feeling so, so blue. Laney was infamous at school; he was that boy last year that refused to come off the stage during last year's spelling bee, stating that he was protesting the unfairness of spelling. "When would you ever need to spell 'rainbow'?" he argued.

He got a week's detention for that.

A year and a half ago, he hid underneath the jungle gym. It caused school wide panic because no one knew where he was for hours except her and Flan-Flan, but they kept their mouths shut because it was sort of funny. When they found him, he was covered in chocolate, and muffin wrappers were scattered around him. Apparently he crept into the lunchroom, grabbed a bunch of chocolate muffins from the cafeteria, and chowed down.

That was detention for two weeks, plus a parent-principal meeting.

A few months ago he tried to start a fad that consisted of wearing your clothes backward. (It came to a point that he wore sunglasses behind his head to see if he could trick people – and he did. He managed to fool the almost blind, always preoccupied Ms. Kutcher who was retiring this year. No one could figure out if she was really tricked or decided to play along. She did adore Lane.) He didn't get in trouble, but it went on his permanent record nonetheless.

What was especially memorable in her mind was half a year ago when he came up to her wearing a black button-up that was one size too big and dress pants that were one size too small, and his hair was combed down and gelled for once. It was spring, and it was wet and smelled of rain. She was wearing a black sleeveless dress with a flower in her hair (a white orchid because that was her mom's favorite). He came up to her and held her hand. She hadn't held his hand in a while; in fact, the last time was when they played "house" and they were husband and wife.

"Mom said you might need me," he said. He smiled, frowned, then smiled again, like he wasn't sure what face he should wear. "She says you'll be sad, and I don't like seeing my friends sad. She says you'll be sad for a long, long time."

She remembered gripping his hand tightly, and he squeezed her fingers back. "I miss her," she trembled out, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her legs were shaking; she swore she heard her bones rattle, like a stick against a picket fence. "I'm scared."

"I think that's okay," he replied. He held up his other hand that was clutching a dragonite plushie by the wing. "You can have Dragonite. Dad gave him to me when I was little. When I miss Dad, I talk to him and I feel better. Maybe he'll help you when you start missing your mom."

She took the stuffed toy with her free hand and pressed it against her body. The warm material felt good against her cold arms. "You're letting me have him?"

He nodded with a smile. He looked at what Julie was staring at earlier, a frame holding a picture of a woman with thick, brown hair and green, determined eyes. "Is this your mom?" he asked, blue eyes wide.

She nodded this time.

"You look like her," he said as he swung their hands back and forth. "She's pretty."

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wasn't sure what she was crying for. She quickly wiped them away before Francis noticed.

"The uh ..." she heard Francis start, "the trainer's license test is coming up, Dumbo. We're preparing for it now in battle studies."

Laney was always excited whenever the trainer's license test was brought up – everyone was, really, but he freaked the freak out whenever Ms. Hall brought it up. That test was one step closer to being a pokémon trainer, and being a pokémon trainer was one step closer to leaving this smelly city and adventuring to ... goodness, wherever you wanted, really. Everyone in class had their own ideas of what type of trainer they wanted to be–coordinator, gym apprentice, ace trainer, bug catcher, whatever–but Lane was different.

"Dragon tamer," was his reply to the famous question. "Like Lance."

They tell him that being a dragon tamer is difficult. Finding a dragon type is hard, let alone catching one, and dragon-type apprenticeships are challenging programs to get into if you wanted to receive a dragon pokémon. They ask him what his backup is.

"I don't have one," he would say. "There's only one choice for me."

She turned her head and watched Francis fidget with a loose string on his t-shirt. "We haven't gotten that far in it," he said, his head lowered, "but I figure you'd wanna be there. I mean, it's all stuff we already know so far. So it's not like you're missing stuff."

A groan caught their attention. Julie snapped her head back to Lane and saw Lane's face screw up, nose wrinkling, upper lip curling. "Daaaark ..." he whispered. The muscles in his face relaxed.

It, this one-worded whisper, was ominous, sending a sensation of cactus needles pricking her along her spine. She reached out and ran a finger against Lane's forehead again, flicking up the bangs that stuck to it. He was definitely sweaty now, and she wasn't sure if it was the lighting but he looked paler. Julie brought her hand back and wiped her finger against her shorts. "Do you think ..." she began, trying to phrase her question properly, "do you think he's ... dreaming?" She turned her head where Francis stood only to find the spot empty. "Flan-Flan?"

Crunch. Julie quickly turned her head in the other direction and saw Francis munching on the cookies she brought for Lane's family. "Flan-Flan, that's for Laney!"

Francis took another huge bite from the chocolate chip cookie he held in his greedy hands, using his tongue to lick up the crumbs around his mouth. "It's not like he'll notice one cookie gone," he said, his mouth filled with balled up pieces of chewed food. He rolled his eyes and threw the rest of the cookie in his mouth, quickly chewing and swallowing it. "And I don't know. If he's asleep, probably. Can you even dream for that long?"

"I wonder what he's dreaming about," she said thoughtfully.

"What do elves usually dream about? The rush before Christmas?"

"Oh, shut up," she said angrily.

"Sheesh. Just kidding. Relax." Francis took his place next to Julie again. She watched as he reached into the pockets of his jeans and pulled out a rectangular piece of hard paper, slipping it underneath Lane's hand. It was the metallic dragonite card Francis got six days ago. "Here, Lane. Since you did do that dare–sort of–I guess you deserve it."

"How nice of you," Julie murmured. "I mean that."

"Yeah. Now wake up already."

**. . .**

Fuck.

He woke up, panicked. He couldn't feel his arms, couldn't move his legs. It was tough enough to wiggle his fingers back and forth; it felt like needles were prodding the tips. His breathing was shallow, his heart beating rapidly. He tried to lift his head; he found that he couldn't do it easily. He tried to wiggle his toes. They were cold within his socks, but at least he could move _something_. He gnashed his teeth in frustration.

He tried to say her name but found his throat dry and unable to let anything out besides a huff. Luckily, this caught her attention, and she scrambled over from the fire pit on her knees. She reached over toward her bag and grabbed a bottle of water from the side pocket before propping his head up on the top of her thighs, unscrewing the top of the bottle and letting water trickle slowly down his throat. The water felt so refreshing, so cool, that it felt like it was burning his insides. As he felt the water hit his stomach, he felt his limbs come back to life slowly but surely; the needle sensations were fading away, and while his muscles were still aching, he could at least move them more than an inch.

She pressed her hand lightly against her forehead and brushed it back through his hair. "How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.

He cleared his throat before replying, "Shitty. The sunlight ..." He wanted to say more, ask why he was feeling this way (did he sleepwalk through an adventure?), at least finish his sentence, but he was too breathless to continue.

Dawn looked up where the sunlight was streaming through the foliage, leaving striped patterns on the dirt floor below. She moved so that her head was blocking the light, casting Lucas's face in shadow. "Better?" she asked, placing the water bottle back on the floor.

He nodded slowly, the back of his head still aching.

"Good." Dawn reached over Lucas's head and straightened out the cover of his sleeping bag. "You slept for so long," she remarked, sitting back up. "It's noon. I called Eldritch on your phone. I hope you don't mind. I think it's better if we get off this island as soon as possible so we can get you help."

"No," he protested, trying to sit up, but a jolt of pain ricocheted up and down his back. He fell back down, his head falling on top of Dawn's thighs.

"Yes," she said, her eyes filled with worry. "Look at you. You can barely move. Besides, I couldn't reach Eldritch. I left a voice mail at nine, but he hasn't called me back yet."

"We haven't found anything yet." His voice cracked. He closed his eyes, brow furrowed. "We haven't found anything."

"You need help," she repeated. She gently placed Lucas's head back on the pillow and scurried to sit by his side instead of behind him, kicking up dirt and diluting the air around them with a brown dust. "You had a rough night."

Lucas opened his heavy eyelids, even though they were aching to be closed, and stared into the noon sky, a light blue dotted with heavy, white clouds. Even if he could barely move, his other senses were alive and kicking. He could hear the rolling of the sea, the screeches of the wingull. He could smell salt, the scent of wet grass, undistinguished plant life. "Last night ..." he murmured. "What happened last night?"

Dawn tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't remember anything?"

It pained him to shake his head, so he uttered, "No."

Dawn sighed and kicked her legs out so she wasn't kneeling anymore, though the action coated her legs with dirt. She leaned back on her hands and stared up into the sky, watching the clouds slowly pass by. "Darkrai got you," she said.

What?

"What?" he asked incredulously. "What do you mean he got me?"

"I woke up last night. You were kicking around and shaking. That's probably why your body hurts so much. I thought you were just having a bad nightmare, so I tried to wake you up but you just ... wouldn't wake up." At this, she seemed to have drifted off, her eyes cast over. She shook her head and turned to face Lucas's bewildered face. "Then you started thrashing, and you kept muttering, 'Darkrai.' I had ... I had to pin"–she lifted her arms and stretched them out in front of her, fingers spread and squirming–"your arms and legs down so you wouldn't hurt yourself, and I kept trying to wake you up, but you just wouldn't and ..."

He noticed how shaky her voice got, tears on the verge. Using all his willpower, Lucas pulled his arms out of the covers, pressed his palms against the flannel lining of his sleeping bag, and slowly pushed himself up. His head was absolutely throbbing (it felt like it was pulsating energy) but he ignored this sensation, kicked down the butterfree in his stomach, and pulled Dawn into a hug. His nose pressed against the side of her neck. He smelled her hair; it smelled sweet, like watermelon, but had that metallic kiss the sun left when someone was outside for hours at a time. He felt her arms wrap around his aching back as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

"I ... I didn't know what to do," he heard her say even though her voice was muffled by his shirt and her long layers of hair. She pulled her head up, pressing her chin against the side of his neck. Her breath was hot on his skin. "I was scared for you. I thought you were gone."

"But I'm not," he added. "So something else happened, right?"

It kind of surprised him that she was the first to pull away from their embrace. Dawn wiped her cheeks then wiped her fingers on her skirt. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah. Somewhere in the middle of all that, I thought of using Myth. She knows Dream Eater, and I was getting desperate, so I asked her to use it. I knew it was dangerous but–"

"Myth?" he interrupted.

"My clefable," she confirmed.

"You used a pokémon named ... Myth to try and help me?"

She nodded.

He had to pause to let that information seep into his brain. A clefable named Myth tried to save you. A pokémon named Myth tried to save you. Myth tried to save you. Myth tried to save you. (The keyword in making him feel better was the word "tried" but it's still ... god, what's the word?)

"There's a word for this," he said out loud, pressing a hand against the side of his head. "I'm just not sure what."

Dawn let out a small laugh, twirling a finger around a long blade of grass. "Yeah, well. Tried. On one of her attempts, something shot back at her and knocked her off her feet, and I decided it was too dangerous for her."

"But not for me."

"I knew your hard head could take it." She grinned, tugging at the blade and pulling it out of the ground. She folded the blade in half and rolled it back and forth between her fingers. "And it did. Anyway, a minute after I called her back, something flew overhead, stopped, and like that"–she snapped her fingers–"it disappeared." She nodded her head toward the fire pit. "See all these feathers? Whatever it was released them when it flew off."

Lucas took a look at the open campsite. Bordered by the thick, gnarled trunks of olive trees on all sides (and probably some other trees that Lucas couldn't identify off the top of his head), the campsite was a haven, blocking the heavy sea winds and the ocean and its unpredictable waves. The ground was hard, yet the dirt was easy to kick up and knock into your shoes, and the grass was long, spiky, and sticky. He had been in worse. In his dazed state, he made out the feathers that decorated the area, caught in the brush and littering the ground like tired confetti. Most of them were dirty, browned with the dirt, but he could make out the dim blues, pinks, and yellows. He caught on quickly.

"Cresselia?" he asked.

"I think. Like I said, it was gone as soon as it came, but the feathers match her colors, no? When the feathers fell, swirling, twirling, glowing under the light of the moon in a hazy, hazy dream like a soft rain–"

"Can you stop speaking like you're writing fan fiction?"

"–you calmed down," she finished, glaring at the boy. "You stopped shaking and murmuring about darkrai and stuff, and you woke up."

"I did?" He scratched the side of his nose. "I don't remember."

"Mhm!" She nodded, beaming. "You told me you were worried for me because you saw me crying."

He racked his brain, trying to remember. "Wait. No, I didn't. I asked why you were sitting on me. Good try, though."

She sighed, curling her right leg up so her knee was in the air. "A girl can try, no?" Dawn winked at him as he rolled his eyes. "But after that, you fell back asleep, and I watched over you. I figured you were just sleeping a regular sleep since you didn't murmur or freak the heckles out anymore. Jump nine hours into the future and here we are."

Lucas focused his attention on the girl. God, she looked tired. It was kind of eerie, actually, with how heavy the bags under her eyes were and how messy her usually straight, glossy hair was. He recognized it. She was doing the girl version of what he did to demonstrate that he wasn't tired. He saw how she tried to fight back these signs by applying makeup on her cheeks and under her eyes and constantly fussing with her hair by pulling it over her shoulders, then throwing it behind her shoulders, then pulling it over her shoulders, then throwing it back. Her hat was pulled lower than usual, probably containing tangled strands that she couldn't brush out without the help of a comb. Her clothes were dirty. Despite how much of a hot mess she looked, she tried to combat it by putting on a tired smile and widening her usually gleaming blue eyes, putting on an appearance of looking awake. She reminded him of him, and he felt bad. Sort of.

"You didn't ... you didn't stay up the entire night, did you?" he had to ask, feeling the urge to nervously fidget with the brim of his beret. When he reached up, he realized he didn't have it on and went on panic mode to find it, his body protesting against the sudden twists. He found it placed near his open backpack.

His open backpack.

His _open_backpack.

As he reached over, his joints screaming, and grabbed his hat, throwing it on his head, Dawn answered, "Sort of. I caught a few moments of sleep here and there, and I slept between six and eight, but for the most part I watched you. Worried, you know." She smiled, but it soon faded away from something genuine to something alarmed when Lucas reached for his backpack, looked at its contents, snapped his head to the left, and noticed the red cover of his notebook sitting so neatly besides her bag. She exhaled nervously, upper lip curling slightly.

Whatever he felt for Dawn less than a minute ago was soon replaced with ... nothing. Nothing. He felt nothing. Nothing toward her, anyway. He felt more nervous for himself than anything. "You ... you read my notebook?" he said slowly, confusingly, alarmingly. He felt tempted to crawl over, grab it, and pull it back into the safety of his arms, but his legs were still too numb to move. So he stared at it, the cover bright under the glare of the sun, willing it to fly back toward him. But even if his head was radiating some unknown energy, apparently this energy was not telekinetic. His notebook–his records, his life, his data, his personal _thought_ for crying out loud–was out there, exposed to nature, exposed to public, exposed to ... her.

"I ..." He watched as her face clenched, eyes narrowing, cheeks scrunching up, brow wrinkling, like she was staring directly into a fire (for all intents and purposes, and because today he felt like making fun of fan fiction, let's say he, too, was fire–rather, a metaphor for it–hot, and glowing, and sort of smelly, and the creator of destruction but the bringer of new life, and, at times, random, because, well, who decided to drop a random thought in the middle of someone else's dialogue here? Only certain fan fiction authors). "I ... I don't know what to say," she said.

"That's a first." He snorted.

"I didn't read a lot," she argued. "I only tried to read what I wanted to figure out about you."

"What?" He tried to keep his tone flat, tried to slow down his beating heart. "Team Galactic? Cyrus? My childhood?"

"Kind of." She crawled over to her bag, dirtying her knees, and swiped the notebook from the ground. She brought it back to him where he greedily grabbed it and placed it on his lap, pinning the cover shut between his fingers.

"Then what?"

She took his flat tone as aggression and turned her head, looking at the twisted trunks instead of his face. "Barry," she addressed the trees.

Barry?

"Barry?" he repeated out loud.

"Like ... I know you don't want to talk about Cyrus, or Team Galactic, or even your championship, and I can respect that because I know those were really difficult moments in your life." Dawn bowed her head, drawing swirls in the dirt. "But when I asked about Barry a few days ago, you seemed eager to talk about him, but then you sort of ... cut off and changed the subject."

It dawned on him that he dreamed of Barry.

"And he was your friend, yeah?"

Barry died in his dream.

"So ... yeah."

And he didn't do anything.

"Lucas?"

He couldn't do anything.

"_Lucas?_"

What was he supposed to do?

"LUCAS?"

"What?" he finally snapped, startling Dawn. He felt bad immediately after, bringing up a hand and wiping at the back of his neck, trying to ignore the jabs of pain that ran up and down and pricked up the hairs on his arm. "Sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I had no right to read your notebook. I shouldn't have. If it helps, I didn't read anything past the first few pages, and all you talked about was what you were having for lunch or dinner for the most part. It's just ..." She paused and slowly turned her head to face Lucas again, wary. "He was your closest friend. You two looked so close, but it feels like ... like you're not friends anymore. And that makes me sad. Is that true? Are you not friends anymore?"

Lucas had written pages upon pages about Barry; Dawn hadn't looked far enough. He tried to reason it out, tried to logically draw conclusions, tried to piece together information, and he understood to an extent, but it still hurt nonetheless. He had to keep reminding himself that he understood, that it was for the best, that being friends with him–and let's keep that vague–would eventually shred them apart like tissue paper in a tornado, but it still angered him. Fucking dammit.

Betrayed isn't the right word; Lucas didn't feel betrayed. He understood. He understood. God, he understood. It bothered him that he understood. He didn't understand a lot of things, but he was sure of this one thing, and that mere fact was what drove him crazy because Barry ... Barry was the one that was supposed to say, "Fuck it," and stick around because that's Barry. Barry plays by his own rules, his own time, his own beat of the drum. Since when did he obey what other people told him to do? Especially Lucas. Especially shy, little Lucas with a scarf too long that the ends dragged on the floor and who relied on Barry when they were younger to talk to the shop clerk. He had only seen Barry bewildered three times in his life: once when Rowan let him keep his chimchar, another when Lake Valor blew up, and the other when Lucas told him that it would be better if they parted ways for a while. Barry's eyes were wide, and bright, and gold, and confused as Lucas said this, and Lucas's were hardened into cold, blue stones by then, and Barry, no, Barry looked anything but hurt. He understood, too, and fuck he hated that he understood, because they were supposed to be friends. That's what it said in the time capsule they buried when they were nine years-old, that even when shit hit the fan (or whatever the nine year-old equivalent of that word is) they would stick together. Because that's what friends do.

But he understood. Things are better that way. Lucas is good at taking hits–he's a durable guy and all according to Arceus knows how many people–and he would take the hits so his friend wouldn't have to suffer anymore. Barry didn't deserve what happened to him. Barry told him that he grew from his experience after that fateful day when Lake Valor blew up and he fought the bitch, but he knew the kid was having nightmares from it. He would take the hits for everyone, even if he hated it, because he hated seeing anyone suffer. That's him. That's Lucas. He's that guy. That guy with the vengeance against Team Galactic. That guy who would one day take down Cynthia's long run as champion. That guy who is so responsible, so determined, and smart, and brilliant, and strong-willed, and repetitive, and, at times, random (because here we are again, breaking dialogue with another person to spill into an emotional mess of emotion) that he would do _anything_, even flatten mountains if someone requested it, because he hated disappointing others, especially himself. And shit he'd be damned if he brought his desires, his lust for pleasing, onto someone else's shoulders, even if it meant sacrificing one of the few things that made _him_ happy.

"We're ... something," he muttered, "but I don't know what that means."

"When was the last you talked to him?"

"Years." Lucas placed his notebook on his belly and collapsed back on top of his sleeping bag, letting his bones creak and relax. He wiggled his fingers on the fabric, touching the balls of cotton. "Years," he repeated. "I hear about him, and I guess he hears about me too, but we haven't talked in a while." The sleeping bag was absorbing the sun, so he kicked off the cover and let the sun bleed into his jeans, his socks, his shirt, his self. He squinted.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Because I said."

"You should contact him again," she said so simply. Oh, if only it were that simple.

"Maybe."

"Do you miss him?"

"Sometimes."

"You were close to him, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So, yeah! Contact him again! Maybe he'll remember me. Maybe all three of us can hang out."

Barry called him after the Lake Valor scandal and before their fall out, asked if he had Dawn's number because she was "seriously cute." He told him he didn't. He really did, but he kept it to himself. He didn't know why.

"Maybe," he said.

Dawn curled her legs into her body and hugged her legs against her chest. She rested her chin on top of her dry knees. "So what is it?" she tried to pry again. "You just drifted apart?"

"Okay," he said.

"Okay what?"

"Okay to your question."

"Okay ..."

"Okay."

He could tell she was annoyed with his vagueness, and it wasn't like he was trying to purposely annoy her or purposely be vague, but it is what it is. That's it. They were vague. Barry and him were just not close anymore, bordering between strangers and acquaintances, because that is for the best, that is what is good for the both of them, that is how Barry can achieve his goals and Lucas his, undisturbed and having one less thing to worry about. That is, he deemed, sacrifice.

(Months ago, he felt selfish–the exact opposite of sacrifice–by giving up this close friendship just so he wouldn't bring Barry pain, humiliation, or whatever. After all, friendship takes two people, but he had to dismiss those thoughts. Barry is better off without him. Everyone is. No, he didn't mean it in a depressing sort of way, a cry for attention because, really, everyone is better off leaving him to clean up other people's messes. He just hated seeing Barry, anyone really, in pain, be hurt, even if they do find some good in it. He stated once he worked better alone, and it's true. The less people he had to worry about, the better. It worked the same for the friends who wouldn't be hit by the misfire of his responsibilities. Barry understood this, though, because that's what friends do: they understand and they stick together through these understandings, and he, too, was willing to sacrifice. Let's keep it vague. Hims and hers are vague. Names make things more real.)

"I couldn't help myself," she began. "I was really curious. I hope you're not mad at me. I won't read it again."

He wasn't.

"I'm not," he said. "I understand."

Understanding is what friends do.

Let's keep it vague. Let's keep "it" vague.

She turned her head and gave him one of those smiles that made his stomach churn like he was hungry. Or maybe he really was hungry. It had been hours since his last meal. Something vibrated next to his leg. His phone. He ignored it.

"Did you dream?" she asked.

"What?"

"Did you dream?"

Barry died in his dream.

"Why?" he asked.

"It is rumored that darkrai sustains energy that comes off nightmares. So did you dream?"

Yes.

"Probably," he answered.

"Can you remember any?"

The vibration died. Barry died in his dream.

Lucas screwed his face up, trying to think. "You were in it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What was I doing?"

Me.

"I don't remember," he said. "But I remember you were in it. Don't think it was anything bad."

It was, but in a different sense of the word.

The vibration kicked up again, and he ignored it.

"What else?" she asked.

Cyrus.

"Nothing," he replied.

"All you dreamed about was me?"

Okay.

"Okay," he said.

The vibration died.

"I don't know if I should be flattered or not," she said. "But I won't pry. I understand now."

Because that's what friends do.

He sat back up, back screaming, and grinned. Even grinning was painful, but she deserved a grin. The phone rang again. He picked it up with achy fingers, stiff joints creaking like rusty hinges, and held the phone to his left ear. He sat up at the sound of the speaker's voice, gruff and aged with sea water. In distraction, in habit, he flipped his notebook open to the last page he written on, pulling a pencil out of his right pocket. He started to scribble. He had no idea what, but he let it bleed out.

"Hey, Eldritch. It's nice to hear from you."

**. . .**

Interesting.

Arguably, you were a difficult case.  
My child, you do not understand how long it took for me to find something?

Did you think you could get away that easily, child?  
And did you think you could flit through these dreams with no repercussion?  
Remarkable specimen, you humans.  
Knowledgeable in some senses but still so lost.  
Roaming the dark.  
Aimless. Disorientated.  
I understand now, child. And this time, there is no escape.

You.

Are.

Mine.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**A/N warning**: Violent/suicidal imagery and curse-filled fights up ahead.

* * *

I think the problem with trying to forget your past is that you are forced to remember it in order to forget it. Forget it, they tell you, you tell yourself. What do you want to forget? The very thing you keep repeating in your head. What is that? That thing you want to forget. It's a paradox in some ways, shitty in others. It's futile.

Still, it's hard for me not to want to forget; life would be easier if I could. I don't think you can ever truly forget. Things just start to lose their edge, become simplified. Those bad emotions become statements of emotion, those statements of emotion become paragraphs, those paragraphs become sentences, those sentences become words, those words become letters, those letters become meaningless symbols, and when you look back on that memory – that thing you want to forget – you realize you don't feel anything toward that memory anymore.

But then, in passing, you mind suddenly becomes filled with that memory. You might just be sitting or reading, and bam! You feel shocked that your mind could spring such a bad trick on you; yet it's a dull version of the memory that doesn't hurt, that doesn't make you want to punch things or cry in frustration. You feel this sort of gaping state that isn't exactly sadness or anger but a knocked-off version of it. A memory of an emotion. And in a way, that numbness is a little sad in itself.

I hear sanity is overrated. I hear being a champion is overrated.

Friends are overrated, too. We are all trying to destroy ourselves, sometimes unwittingly. That's scary. When you let people in, you let them see your vulnerabilities, your weak spots, and any minute, any second, they might just snap you in half. But you've got to let it go. You're fighting a useless fight. It's the whole risk vs. reward ratio. I think it's worth it.

I think she's worth it.

...

Move Set:

Screech  
Confuse Ray  
Attract  
Signal Beam

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

A storm was on the horizon.

Dawn could barely hold his weight up as he leaned heavily against her, his left arm wrapped around her shoulder. She looked out, eyes narrowed, hair blowing behind her and fanning out. The skies were gray and cloudy, as was the sea who reflected the sky. Glimmers of afternoon sunlight peeked out in thin, gold spotlights. It reminded her of a vanity mirror.

Lucas informed her to stay above land; the mirror sea was shaky now, able to overtake the docks and sweep her away. So she stood on the hill, eyes squinting, weight distributed to her side to hold her steady. She watched as the motor boat roared toward them, shattering mirrors, shattering the loud wind that whispered harshly. It's a ssssecret. It's a ssssecret. Don't tell.

His eyes were closed and his breaths were soft, gentle. His lids flicked open halfway, and she felt it, felt them open like they were her own eyes. Blue caught blue, and she gave him a smile, tentative, worried, but hopefully reassuring. His left cheek scrunched up, brow wrinkling. It took all her power not to kiss that scrunched up cheek and relax it. It'd probably make things worse, but he looked so peaceful, and this setting was straight out of a movie, a novel, her imagination.

She turned her head and stared at the olive trees, branches creaking and shaking; nature was shivering. Rain and leaves swept past. Her skin was oddly sticky. The fingers on her right hand pushed up the sleeve on her left arm and wrapped themselves around it, squeezing, letting her nails dig into the skin and leave crescent-shaped marks. It's a secret, she thought, eyes reflecting the gray. What happened here is a secret. The secret is a secret. The secret word of the day is "secret."

The boat pulled up to the docks, and she nudged Lucas who, startled, stood up straight and took a step away. It amused her. He allowed her to see him in a weakened state, let her in, let someone else take care of him instead of the reverse, but he wouldn't dare allow anyone else see that. He gave her a wary glance, eyes flicking up and down and judging her, but she stood there, confident, hands on her hips, knuckles pressed against her hip bone. She grinned back. The sleeves of her pea coat fell over her balled fists. She heard Lucas clear his throat. She threw her hair over her shoulder with a shake of her head.

The two of them watched as the young sailor threw rope – evil, evil rope – over one of the docks' wooden pillars. He walked toward them and they toward him and met on the hill's slant. Dawn stared at her boots, the material soaked with rain, and idly wondered if her soles were slick enough for her to slip on the wet grass and slide toward the bottom.

Eldritch asked if they found anything. Her eyes cast up, meeting Lucas's still wary gaze before he turned his head and looked up at the sky, letting out an exasperated gasp of air. She turned her attention toward the young father, his jacket zipped up and wrapped tightly around him. His face was unflinching in the biting wind. His brown eyes seemed to stress the question again, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. She shook her head. She felt the father deflate. She wanted to apologize–why did she always feel the need to apologize for things that aren't her fault when a person is sad?–but bit her tongue to stop herself. She ran her tongue over her two front teeth before rolling it back.

He motioned them to go to the boat with a nudge of his head and the point of a finger, commenting that they had to leave right now before the storm got too bad. As he said this, the wind roared again. Don't you tell. Don't you tell. It's a secret, and don't you tell. She wouldn't. She had no idea what not to tell, but she kept her word to the distressed wind.

She adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder before climbing on the boat.

. . .

Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.

He wasn't in his room, he realized, as his blurry eyes caught the sight of white sheets, white walls, gray weather, and the reflection of dim light on the window. The sheets felt nothing like his sheets at home. His were soft; these were stiff and itchy. He tried to move his limbs, to bring his hands to his face to rub the tiredness out of his eyes, but felt his arms too heavy to lift. He tried to open his mouth, to let out some sort of vocal noise that he was awake and here and hungry, but found his lips stuck together.

As he closed his eyes, trying to contemplate what was going on, he felt a presence behind him, its cold grip guiding the stiff sheet over his upper body, then shoulder, then below his chin, and, quite suddenly, he had this overwhelming realization that he wasn't awake. He let out a whimper and forced his eyes open again: the same white on white on gray on bright. The being was gone and the sheet was still below his waist. Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.

Then there was the lull, forcing him to close his eyes, and the return of the being, this time arching over and blowing against him, a frightening gust that pricked up the hairs on his arms. Something ran through his hair; something pressed against his back. The cold grip returned, aggressively taking the folds of the sheet and forcing it over his upper body, then shoulder, then head – and the air became hot and stuffy, and he felt his heart race, his breath going shallow, like when breathing in the hot steam of a long shower with the doors and windows closed, and this time there was a fight, a fight to open his eyes, or his dream-eyes–he knew he wasn't awake but wasn't in a dream either–and Lane felt the groggy state of awakening after a particularly restless night of sleep. It's a dazed state, your vision blurry, sinuses irritated, like after inhaling the summer and the smell of lemongrass touched with salt that blows through the open window. His mind was running but at a standstill at the same time, like a car turned on but thrown in park. Still, he was finally awake, and that's all that mattered.

He started to panic at the repetition. Maybe it was the realization that he wasn't in control anymore. Lane hated taking orders, especially orders from some weird black thing who didn't know who Lance was and how awesome he is. Lance, not him, though he's pretty awesome, too.

It is happening again. I feel it. Do you not feel it?

This time, the clawed creature with an icy touch took the sheet and smothered him with it.

. . .

Dawn stared at the lighthouse outside Canalave's borders. They were still a bit's away, bouncing on the shaky waves, but she could still make out the gigantic stone building with its bright, narrow light that circled around, calling forth lost souls who were looking for shelter. It rested on the cliff, the lighthouse, so tall and robust. The frothing, gray waves collided with the hard, brown rock in powerful blasts.

She narrowed her eyes as the salty water stung her eyes (she wasn't crying, right?), the wind whipping her hair around in frenzy. She pulled down on her knit cap, fingernails poking holes through the yarn, and pressed her thighs together, part to keep her legs warm and part so Lucas's head wouldn't fall through and hit the stiff wooden bench she sat on. Lucas's body took up the rest of the bench, his right leg pulled up but his left leg stretched out. His hands were laced on his stomach, hat cocked over his eyes. She assumed he was asleep. She had never seen him so worn out. The weird thing was that he was worn out from sleeping of all things.

Dawn, feeling unsettled, turned her upper body so she could stare at the lighthouse again. She pressed a covered hand against her stomach, rubbing it through her thick coat. Her eyes rolled upward, staring at the clouds that suddenly swarmed and overtook the beautiful blue morning a few hours ago. They rumbled against each other, pushing each other, trying to make more room for their vast bodies. Lucas grumbled too, stirring, right leg lowering itself only for his left leg to rise. He unlaced his hands briefly to tug down on his jacket and throw the frays of his scarf over his shoulders instead of letting the ends sweep the floor.

When she realized that he was still awake, she asked him how he felt. He cursed in reply. She wondered out loud when Lucas had become such a potty mouth and teased him that she was going to tell his mother. Lucas lifted the brim of his cap with his palm, resting his fingers on top. He stared at her, eyes wide. She rubbed her lips together before smiling in return.

When she asked him, quite tentatively, if he was disappointed that they were leaving without finding anything new, he looked at her funny as if the answer – yes – was obvious. He then muttered something, something she could barely hear over the roar of the motor and the crashing of waves, but she heard her name followed by an eyebrow raise and a smirk. She noticed that he doesn't say her name a lot for some reason.

She didn't bother to ask him to repeat as she smiled back, letting her imagination fill in the blanks, her hands playing with the key chains on her bag.

. . .

He was back home. Home, everyone! Sweet, sweet home!

Lane ran for his room, letting his right hand drag against the small bumps and grooves of the hallway's wall. He kicked open the door of his bedroom with a socked foot and was greeted with ... nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He wandered in, confused, letting the dust swirl around him as he stood in a patch of sunlight streaming through his bare window (where were his window stickers?). There were the sneaker skid marks on the wall near his now empty closet when he tried to see if he could climb up walls (he couldn't, though he did make it up two steps if he tried to run up it first). There was the weird stain in the corner that was an off-shade of white compared to the rest of the carpet (he accidentally spilled an entire gallon of bubble soap when blowing bubbles in his room one rainy day. There were a lot of bubbles that day, and lots of yelling, too). But as for anything else, it was all gone. No bed to jump on. No nightstand with a pokéball-shaped alarm clock. No lacy curtains that Mom constantly plucked at. No ...

Where _was_Mom?

"Helloooo?" he yelled while cupping his hands around his face. He enjoyed how his voice echoed.

Dad appeared behind him, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. Lane excitedly ran toward him, arms outstretched to give him a hug, but Dad stepped back and pushed him away. He stood there – him, not Dad, though Dad was standing too – eyes wide, filled with question. He wanted to ask where his stuff went, why it was so dusty, why Dad was wearing a fancy suit instead of his usual ratty t-shirts, and if he ran fast enough, could he run up the wall and do a back flip like in the movies, but strangely enough–perhaps not strange enough to ask but strange enough for it to be the first question to a dad he hadn't seen in what felt like months–he asked: "Where's Mom?"

Dad gave him one of the grimaces that could be confused with grins as he pushed his hefty self away from the door frame. His arms were still crossed, his fists pressed between his chest and the crooks of his elbows. Dad blew out his cheeks, blew out the air, and repeated the process. "Gone," he finally said after a third cycle of sucking in and blowing out huge puffs of breath.

Lane scratched his scalp through his hair. "Gone?" he repeated. "Gone where?"

"I finally got rid of that whore."

Lane knew curse words even though Mom didn't want him to know about them, let alone use them. Dad cursed a lot when he thought Lane couldn't hear (and a lot of kids at school were cussing already), though Lane heard it anyway and just didn't mention it. But Dad never cussed in front of him, let alone about Mom. "Gone?" he said again, flustered. He felt heat rise to his cheeks, nostrils flaring. "What did you do with her?"

"I'm getting married," his father proclaimed proudly, ignoring Lane's question, putting his hands on his hips. He motioned toward his black suit adorned with dark blue tie and white undershirt.

Lane felt his heart thump in his ribcage as his father made a swipe for him. He sidestepped and ducked under his arms, exiting his room and standing in the dim hallway. He pressed his back against the wall (why wasn't he running for Arceus's sake!) and watched his father turn around, grimace-like grin abroad. "Married?" he asked.

"Yes, married again to my true love!" Dad yelled gleefully, taking a step forward in what appeared to be painfully tight black leather shoes. Said painfully tight black leather shoes raised itself and tried to stomp against Lane, but Lane rolled over and dodged it. The collision made the empty picture frames on the wall rattle (good. That stupid school picture of him when he was six and had snot running out of his nose was gone). "I am marrying the sea! Just me and my mistress!"

Lane reached down to the waistline of his jeans and pulled them up by tugging on the back belt loop. He jumped a bit so that the ends of his pants were resting on the tongues of his sneakers rather than dragging on the floor. "Are you coming back?" he asked tentatively, his left hand still pressed against his back. He slowly made his way toward the entrance of the empty house, inhaling the dust and trying his best not to sneeze even though his nose twitched. "Daddy"–daddy? He hadn't called Dad "Daddy" in years–"you promised you'd always come back after a trip. Don't you remember? When you gave me Dragonite and took me and Mom to lunch at the docks before you went out to sea for two months? You said ... you said you might be gone for weeks at a time, sometimes months, but you said you'd come back so long as you lived! That's what you said!" His nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed, breath coming out loudly from his open, dry lips. "That's what you promised!"

Silly brat.

"Silly brat," Dad said, one of his hands reaching behind his back as Lane bumped into the front door, his fingers roaming behind him in panic, trying to find and open the lock. "You really believe that?"

"You promised," Lane reiterated firmly. "And you promised Mom!"

Success. Lane's shaky fingers managed to twist the deadbolt into the unlocked position with a satisfying click. His hands wrapped around the door's lever, ready to push it down when necessary –now, Lane, push it down _now_. Dad pulled out a knife, the steel blade shining even with the sunlight blocked by the heavy curtains. Before Lane could press down on the lever, his father's big hands grabbed for him and got a hold around the thin collar on his t-shirt, dragging him closer. Lane squirmed, trying to pull away from his father's meaty fingers, his head turned toward the side, refusing to look him in the face.

"Look at me," Dad demanded.

Look at him. Look at _ME_.

Lane scowled. "No," he said, hands outstretched, trying to push his father away.

"Look at me," Dad demanded again. The hand holding the knife lurched forward, grabbed Lane's chin roughly, and turned his head so he was staring directly into the abyss. The butt of the blade pressed into Lane's cheek.

"You were a mistake. You know that, right?" Dad sneered, releasing Lane's shirt from his grasp but keeping his other hand firm on his chin. "Your mother was nothing more than an easy fuck."

"You don't even know what you're talking about," Lane murmured through puckered lips, blue eyes driving their own daggers into his father's face.

Yes I do.

"You two just held me back," his father continued. "I want to be free from my burdens."

Lane's legs were trembling. He tried to throw a punch, but his father's fleshy hands managed to grip and hold tight to Lane's scrawny wrists. "I'm not a burden. You don't know anything!"

I will admit, dear child, that you were no easy specimen to dissect, to evaluate, to dominate.

Dad released him from his grip, and Lane flew back into the wood of the white door (he noticed the bells that hung around the lever were gone as nothing rang from the collision). His head hit the door hard, dizzying his vision, but he managed to clear it up with a shake. Once again, his hands roamed the back until he found the lever of the door, fingers wrapped around the cold brass, but he found that he couldn't move his trembling legs to escape.

Are you afraid of death, child?

Dad raised the knife and ran his pointer finger down the blade lightly. Lane didn't know what to do but stare and control his breathing.

I think you are.

He pressed his finger against the tip and drew blood that ran down his hand and gathered into the leather band of his watch.

Just not of your own.

He pushed down the lever and pushed open the door and pushed himself out right before the knife's tip pushed into Dad's neck. Lane slammed the door shut, eyes squinting as sunlight assailed his eyes. He managed to take a few shaky steps forward before collapsing into a sitting position, bottom meeting the hard wood floor of the porch. His legs curled up, and he squeezed them against his body, chin resting on his knees. The dragonite doll Dad gave to him was on the middle step that lead up to the porch even though he thought he gave the doll to Julie after her mom died. Its beady eyes stared up at him, stitched grin still grinning, clothed, furred wings blowing to the right in the light breeze. It wobbled on its bottom. He stretched over and pushed it off the steps. The doll landed on its belly.

"I hate you," he said to it.

. . .

The boat pulled into Canalave's docks without any problems. Eldritch anchored the boat to the dock with the same evil rope from earlier as Dawn climbed out of the boat, Lucas following her.

Eldritch said they were lucky that the seas were still relatively settled on their trip back. The clouds had finally released their torrents of water that fell in icy sheets. The raindrops absorbed the color of the streetlights; they were like melted gold. Dawn outstretched her hand and let a few drops fall into her palm, fingers slightly curled. She imagined herself cashing in on this natural wealth, but the drops were translucent, reflecting not the gold of the lights but the paleness of her skin. She wiped her wet hand on Lucas's jacket sleeve, her nose wrinkled. He frowned in return.

As Eldritch climbed out of the boat and back onto the solid wood dock, he mused how Lane loved rainy nights. He likes the tapping on the roof, he remarked, a mix of cheer and sad nostalgia in his voice. He likes how the asphalt streets look gold when we're driving, he commented.

Dawn looked at the streets. She remarked that she enjoyed the distorted reflections of buildings, the sound of car rushing by that crush wet rocks underneath their tires. She liked umbrellas, the pleasant "ticking" noise that sounds when rain drops on the nylon and tumbles off the ends of the metal ribs. She liked the mixed sensations of rain, how everything is eerily calm but at the same time rushed as people scurry from one dry destination to another. She liked that Lucas had pulled out an umbrella out of his backpack and held it more over her head than his.

Eldritch wiped at his eyes. Lucas lifted the umbrella higher over their heads. She looked at him; he looked much healthier with his back straight and stance sturdy. He stared up at the dark clouds, uncaring that the rain was pelting him in the face. The sun had already set. He told her that he liked rainy nights because you couldn't really see the clouds. We're staring into an abyss, he remarked, hand wrapped tightly around the u-shaped handle of the umbrella. It makes me feel tiny, a speck, and I like being a speck in the grand scheme of things.

She stared at the side of his risen head and replied that you could do that any night, that it doesn't have to be raining. He corrected himself: I like night, then.

Eldritch rubbed his lips together. He asked if they wanted to visit Lane. She looked at him and him at the night that he adored staring into, but they both agreed at the same time.

**. . .**

Lane hated stupid dress shirts, believe it. He hated stupid collars; he hated stupid clip-on ties; and he hated that he always had to tuck them – his shirt, not the ties, though there's a funny story about that – into his pants. Mom made sure he looked well put-together today. She told him, as she combed down his gelled hair much to his chagrin, that it was important he looked respectable. She adjusted his gray tie so it fell flat in the middle of his stupid, itchy dress shirt, right where the buttons were.

"Do you know what to say?" she asked, standing up straight and fixing her own black dress, the bottom ends hanging slightly above her knees. She put on the black cardigan with the lacy back, slipping her arms through the thin sleeves. Lane stared at the top of his fancy shoes that pinched the top of his toes. His pants were just long enough to hide his socks but not enough to engulf his shoes like his jeans did.

"Uh ..." Lane scratched his head, and Mom's hand immediately flew back down to flatten what he had mussed up.

Mom grouped her brown hair together and pulled it around her left shoulder. She grabbed her purse off the wooden chair nearby before opening the front door. The wind darted inside like an excited dog. "You say that you are sorry for her loss." She stepped onto the porch, heels clicking on the well-kept dark wood. Lane scurried after her, and she closed the door, locking it with her house key.

"Why? It's not my fault. You told me to say that when it's my fault," he said as the two of them walked out of the shade their house provided and down the concrete pathway into the sunny spring. The air smelled wet, like right after a rainstorm, though the ground was dry.

"You be _respectful_, Lane," she replied. They reached the wooden gate; Mom rested her hand on the brass lock and flicked it up, unlocking it. The gate opened with a lazy creak. "You're not saying 'I'm sorry' because you did something. You're saying 'I'm sorry' because you sympathize, Lane. She might be sad. She might be sad for a long time." She looked around, noticing that her son was gone from her side. "Lane?"

Lane was crouched down, knees in the air, staring at something in the front yard. "There you are, Dragonite. I was wondering where you went. Hope you enjoyed your camp out!" he said cheerfully.

"Lane Adam Eldritch!" Mom pulled him up by the back of his sports coat, though Lane managed to grab onto Dragonite's tail and bring him up too. "Now is not the time for that. Leave Dragonite here."

Lane didn't listen, and Mom didn't seem to care too much as she didn't ask him again to drop Dragonite off as they walked down the sidewalk. He brought him to his face; he smelled stale. He swung him back and forth by the tail as Mom and he went to one of Canalave's local house of worship. A bunch of people were standing outside the building, most of them dressed in dark colors too. It was a dumb day to dress in dark colors; it's hot as heck. Lane could feel perspiration building up behind the collar of his dumb, black, itchy, stupid, gross dress shirt. Mom and he stood a bit's away from everyone. Mom's eagle eyes were scanning for something, and she nudged her head in the direction of a grassy fixture in front of the church where even more people were gathered.

"There she is," she said. "She's standing near Mrs. Edmund's picture."

Lane didn't need his mom's help; he could spot Julie and her big, brown curly pigtails a mile away. Still, he stood there, one hand grasping Dragonite's tail and the other pulling at his clip-on tie. Mom tried to edge him forward with a touch to the upper back, but Lane stayed anchored, like one of Dad's ships tied with the evil rope. He felt both her hands lightly grasp his shoulders and run down his arms as she bent down and whispered softly in his ear, "She needs you, sweetheart." He looked back nervously at his mom, and Mom smiled at him. "And I'll be here if you need me."

It was all the encouragement he needed. He walked ahead and into the grass, the wet blade sliding against his leather shoes, his eyes fixated on the girl who he shared teachers with ever since he and Julie were five. He swallowed a rock-sized lump in his throat that went down uneasily.

Death is such a fickle thing, an entity that holds no biases, no preferences. It does not stereotype; it does not act justly or malevolently. Those who say death acts in a certain way is only forcing their own attitudes onto it. It just is. It is a tautology, death. It happens to all mortals, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. If you are lucky, it will take you peacefully, without a fight.

I am like death. My prey comes into my space, and I take them in no matter who they are because that is what I need to do in order to survive. I have had others besides you: other children, adults, pokemon. I had a champion once. He got away quickly. He was in the right place at the right time. He was lucky.

You, child, are not.

Lane approached Julie, who hadn't turned away from the picture of Mrs. Edmund, and before he could utter the words burning on his lips, he felt something shock him on the hand and force him onto his knees. He drew his hand up and tried to shake off the feeling. He soon realized he wasn't at Mrs. Edmund's memorial anymore but in his dark bedroom, crouched on the floor near the door and peeking through the crack, his eyes fixated down the hallway where his parents were fighting. He quickly turned his head toward the window where the full moon was hanging outside, basking his bed in a pale, white glow. His eyes went down to the pokéball-shaped alarm clock. Nine o'clock on the dot. He adjusted his legs so that he was no longer balancing on the flat of his feet but sitting on his rump instead. He had been in this position before where he was should be sleeping but was kept awake by the yelling his parents tried so hard to hide from him.

Apparently they didn't feel like trying tonight.

"My fucking fault?" Lane cringed at Dad's bitter tone, his lip curling up and his brow wrinkling. "How is this my fucking fault?"

"If you weren't gone all the time–"

"It's my JOB, Alyson." Lane jumped up a bit when he heard something shatter on the kitchen tile. "This house, that food, these bills, all bought and paid because of that stupid fucking job you keep complaining about. You know where we'd be if I didn't have that job?" There was a pause before Dad answered, "Out there on the goddamn street!" He heard Dad's voice crack on the last word.

There was another awkward pause as the kitchen pantry slammed shut and the sound of broom sweeping and ceramic clattering traveled down the hallway. "If you didn't have that stupid job, my son wouldn't be–" Mom had to stop herself as she choked out a loud sob and sucked it back up with a few snotty sniffles.

"He's not just _your_ son. He's my son, too, and I did whatever I fucking could for the kid. So don't even pretend that you were the only one that sacrificed so much, that you're the only one who fucking _tried_."

Have you noticed it yet?

Mom collected herself. "He loved to follow after you," she argued. "You love adventure, he loved adventure. You get into trouble, he got into trouble. But unlike you, he was a kid. He didn't know when not to cross the line. And now look where we are."

Have you noticed how they talk about you, child?

Something heavy slammed on the glass table in the kitchen, which made Lane flinch again.

"This, Daniel," she said. "I shouldn't have had to plan for this _ever._He copied your stupid ass; he imagined that he WAS you. Don't you know how much he missed you when you're out? I might as well have been a single mother."

"It's my _JOB_," his father repeated furiously.

Lane was tempted to close the door and block out the angry voices that journeyed toward him, entered through his elf-like ears, and rattled his brain in his skull, but he forced himself to sit there, big ears open. He curled his legs under his bottom and peered forward.

I know you fear death; I know you fear the death of your loved ones. You saw this with your friend, the girl you told me about when we talked. She lost her mother so quickly, according to your memories, and it made you realize that the same could happen to you. You realized you had no say in death. You could not bargain with it. You could not fight it. You just had to accept it, take it in. You realized how swiftly your life, and the lives of others, could change with death.

When I read into you – into your past, your hopes for the future, your old dreams – everything I discerned was so simple, so sweet, so caring, so loving. You are a happy child. A hopeful child. You are braver than that champion. A selfish one he was, dressed in facade of unselfishness. He was afraid, afraid of letting himself go to others, so he pushes. He tries to push everyone away. He says he does not want to hurt anyone else when he does this. But what he really wants is to not hurt himself, to not feel that pain of losing someone ever again. He fears being alone, to not be left by himself to foster his anger, so he tries to block out emotion, too. Emotion, you taught me, comes in a wide variety, some painful and some exhilarating. I do not know what it is like to feel sad, but I do know it hurts my prey. Unlike him, you accept them all. You take people by the hand – the hand of that little girl, for example –and try to help them. Why? Because you are a good boy. Because you truly wish happiness on everyone you meet.

You, too, know this, perhaps subconsciously. You know there are risks involved when you let someone into your life. You know you can get hurt, but you do not allow that to stop you. You let them in – willingly, too – and that is what makes you braver than that pathetic champion. What you both fear is abandonment, death and the aftermath of death. He fears this for himself.

But you ...

You fear this for others.

There was another loud pound, the sound of a hand colliding with something hollow but hard.

"I should be settling on the details for his birthday party," she said callously. "Not the final details for his funeral."

He was ... dead? Lane blinked rapidly. He crawled away from the door but remained on the floor, still well within earshot of the conversation. He hugged his knees to his chest. He stared at a couple of marble pokéballs that his dad gave him positioned near the door; they reflected a glint from the light that traveled from the living room toward his room.

"And if you were here ..." his mother said shakily (he could imagine the tears streaming down her face), "if you were here more often–"

"It still could have happened," Dad interrupted.

"No. You could have done _something _if you were here."

"What could I have done, Aly?" he yelled. "Follow him everywhere and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid? He was a kid, Aly! Kids get into messes all the time, and even if I had the time, and the money, and the energy to follow him around, I couldn't follow him _everywhere_. But I was doing my job, trying to support him and you so we don't wind up on the streets!"

"And look where that got us," she said bitingly.

"Lovely, Aly," his dad replied back sarcastically. "Of course. Everything is my fault. That's fine. Nothing is ever your fault. NOTHING. While I'm out there working my ass off, you get to stay here and bitch."

"I'm done," she said simply, coldly. "I am done." Lane heard chair legs scrape back, another slamming down of something on the kitchen table. "This life, this home, you ... you were a mistake."

Who was she referring to with this "you?" Lane clenched his burning eyes shut and crawled toward his bed, pulling himself up on top of it. He pulled the sheets adorned with water-pokémon over his legs and let the tears drip down onto his covered knees.

"Aly, come on," he said. "We–"

"Don't touch me," she warned. "Don't _touch _me!"

A loud slap reverberated through the house, followed by more chair legs squeaking on tile. Something crashed onto the floor again with a loud bang, which made Lane yelp and shake his already blurry vision. He wished Dragonite was here, but he realized Julie probably needed it more. Real men don't cry after all.

"Take all that stupid money you worked so hard for while ignoring your family and spend it on a divorce lawyer. I'm done."

His dad didn't respond verbally. Lane heard the coat rack fall over and clatter onto the kitchen tile before the bells that hung around the front door's lever chimed. Dad stepped out and slammed the door behind him. The bells rattled again before silence overwhelmed the house except for Lane's shuttered breathing and the sobs that racked his throat and forced their way out in loud gulps.

Real men don't cry.

Real men are sailors.

Mom raced down the hallway, stopped at Lane's room, and threw the door open, startling him. Her eyes darted back and forth the same way they moved when she was helping him look for Julie at Mrs. Edmund's memorial, but she found no solace, no calm, in this search and instead, with her shoulders pushed back and her curly hair bouncing with each small movement of her head, let out a sob so loud that it rattled Lane to the core. She walked toward Lane's bed and collapsed to the side of it, her head resting on top of her crossed arms that lay on his bed. Her cries were muffled. Lane tentatively reached out, wanting to run his hand through his mom's hair like she used to do when he was upset, but he realized it was done in vain; his touches weren't felt, and Mom continued to weep.

"Don't cry, Momma," he said pathetically, fighting back his own weeping. "Don't cry because I don't like seeing you sad." His words went unheard, and Mom continued crying, as did he.

I know you fear death but not for the same reasons that others fear death. People fear death because they are afraid of the unknown. You fear death because of the exact opposite; you know how people change and react when someone dear to them dies. You worry about your own death, not because you hate suffering in your own body but because upsetting people is the last thing you want. I find this peculiar.

I realized something. He, the champion, hated displeasing others because it makes him feel guilty. You, my child, like pleasing others because it makes them happy.

There is a fine difference between both. I cannot take that away from you.

Lane pushed back the black sleeve that had unraveled itself, reached out, and grabbed Julie's hand, her hand soft and her fingers slender compared to his and especially compared to Fran's sausage fingers. Julie's eyes raced down from the picture, to the locked hands, to his face. "Mom said you might need me." He smiled, then frowned, then smiled again, unsure of what emotion to express on his face. "She says you'll be sad, and I don't like seeing my friends sad." He paused, his mind trying to piece together what Mom told him to say. "I'm sorry for your loss" repeated in his head but out of his mouth came, "She says you'll be sad for a long, long time." It sounded more truthful, more genuine, than some fake apology where he wasn't sure what he was sorry for in the first place.

"I miss her," she trembled out, gripping his hand tighter. "I'm scared."

"I think that's okay," he replied quickly without much thought. The answer came natural to him, not because it sounded like the "right thing to say" but because he truly believed it. That's what Dad taught him. That's what Dad told him on the docks before he left for that two month long trip to the Sevii Islands. It's okay to feel upset, and sad, and angry at people, but don't let it overwhelm you, he said. Don't fight it back; accept it. When you can accept it, you can move on.

He looked down at his shoes and the long blades of grass and noticed he still had Dragonite clutched in his right hand. Without thinking again because it felt like the natural thing to do, he lifted Dragonite up and said, "You can have Dragonite. Dad gave him to me when I was little. When I miss Dad, I talk to him and I feel better. Maybe he'll help you when you start missing your mom."

She took the stuffed toy with her free hand and pressed it against her body. "You're letting me have him?"

He nodded. He was going to miss Dragonite, but Dragonite had completed his mission with him. It was time for him to challenge more difficult tasks. That's what Lance would have done. Lane turned his head toward the picture frame, admiring it. "Is this your mom?" he asked.

She was the one that nodded this time.

"You look like her," he said simply. He swung their hands back and forth. "She's pretty."

Julie let out a loud sob at this, and Lane was quick to turn his head to find his mom. Meek blue met motherly blue. Sure enough like she promised, she was there for him. "Hug her," she mouthed.

Now that's where he drew the line. He didn't do a full-on hug because that's just icky, but he did wrap his arm around Julie's shoulder and pull her in a bit, not so that they were touching too much but enough for her to calm herself down, her own arms wrapped around Dragonite.

I believe our time together is coming to an end, child.

Lane was back in the black void, floating in the empty space. He turned his head left and right, trying to find the source of the voice. "Really?" he asked in disbelief as his body floated down toward a concrete platform (or was it the concrete platform floated up to him?). He landed feet first. His shoe laces were untied. "How come?"

"You have met the Protector, the Old Woman. Someone near your mortal body has brought back proof."

"The Old Woman?" he repeated.

Yes. She is the opposite of the abyss. She is the opposite of fear. She is the opposite of the lull.

"What is the opposite of fear?" Lane asked.

Not fear.

Lane scratched the side of his nose. "I don't think you're allowed to define things like that," he said. "Ms. Hall won't let me do that on vocabulary tests anyway."

The train had pulled into the station, its stack blowing out billowing gray smoke that dissipated as quickly as it formed. It screeched to a stop, blowing its whistle, though Lane stood there, unflinching at the noise and the onslaught of fume. The door opened, revealing empty passenger seats with red cushion seats. Lane stared at the grimy windows. "When I was six, I was almost killed by a train."

I know, child.

"I didn't know it then. Now I do. But I'm okay."

I know, child.

Lane stepped forward and wrapped his hand around one of the metal poles bolted outside the train that helped people climb up. The pole felt greasy and cold. He turned back as if the entity he was talking to was there. "How come that was my last dream, Julie's mom's memorial?"

There are no last dreams.

"I mean in this place. In your world. In your home."

There are no last dreams.

Lane wasn't satisfied with the answer but accepted it. He pulled himself up so he was standing in the doorway of the train but didn't move inside, blocking the door from closing. He stared up, blue eyes reflecting the black. "Will you remember me ... whoever you are?"

No, child. There are so many before you and after you, and I know no names. And you will not remember the dreams you have had here except fleetingly and perhaps a creature or two. You have energized me for the time being. This is my gift to you.

"The gift of forgetting a bad dream?"

Yes.

"A video game would have been nicer." Lane snapped his head to the right when the train blew its whistle again, but he didn't move from the door. He stared back out into the empty, black space ahead. "I wouldn't mind remembering. I don't think forgetting is good."

Then that is up to you.

"I don't mind you not remembering me. We're all different, right? We all cope in different ways, right?"

Yes, child.

Lane smiled. "Yeah. So I don't mind."

I know, child.

The whistle blew again, urging Lane to step inside so the train could close its doors. "I hope ..." he began, face screwing up as he tried to figure out a way to word his sentence, "I hope I helped you. I hope you know that I don't think you're bad. It's how you're created, after all, like the way I have big ears." He rubbed his cheek with his uplifted shoulder. "And even if you don't remember me and I don't remember you, I'd still like to be your friend."

You bemuse me, child.

"That was a word on a vocabulary test, bemuse. I think I confused it with 'amuse.'" Lane shook his head as the train blew its whistle again. "Anyway, I think it's time for me to go." He stepped back and the train closed its door. "Goodbye!"

Goodbye ...

Lane.

. . .

There was a stillness in the air when Lane awoke. His eyelids flicked up slowly, blue eyes weary with tiredness. His hands were flat on his sides; underneath his fingertips was something feathery. He grabbed it and lifted it up, letting the keyring hang around his pointer finger. A multi-colored feather dangled from the end of the ring.

Then he heard the sounds of chair legs scraping on the ground, of sharp intakes of breath, of hurried footsteps. He turned his head slowly to the right, and his eyes met the bewildered one's of a girl, her dark blue hair grazing her cheek. Standing next to her was a boy who looked equally perplexed with a funny hat.

The girl was the first person in the room to regain composure.

"Hello," she said, smiling, "Lane."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

We're all characters in unrefined plots. There is no narrator to neatly explain things, no omniscient voice that details the important people in our lives in one, hefty paragraph. Some people think of their lives as fiction. We build up to some climax–that turning point in our lives–and resolve ourselves into solution. "And they lived happily forever. The end."

Some people are constantly looking for that happy ending. I'm just looking to be happy.

...

Species Name: Dawn

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

Around her left wrist was a pearl bracelet. Lucas hadn't noticed it until now when he looked down at her hands and saw her playing with them, sliding the bracelet off her wrist and letting the cold pearls wrap around her fingers. He watched as she pressed her finger against one pearl before sliding down to the next one and repeating the process, like they were beads of the rosary. Her mouth seemed to be invisibly chanting something – a silent prayer.

She turned away from the window they stood in front of and saw that his eyes were watching her hand movements, the silent mutterings to herself. She pressed her lips together and looked up and down from her bracelet to his face. "A force of habit," she said as she directed her attention toward the window again. "I actually don't realize I'm doing it until someone notices."

"I hadn't noticed until now," he said.

She smiled to herself. "Maybe my force of habits became yours, too. The way you run your finger down the brim of your beret when you're nervous was mine."

Lucas hadn't realized his lifted hand was midway between the right side of his cap and the left. He immediately dropped his hand, finger brushing against his nose as Dawn giggled lightly. "I didn't notice you did that until we got on the island. You were doing it after we took that one picture together. You better have not deleted that. I want it emailed to me."

"I didn't. And okay."

Dawn nodded and moved her bracelet around her wrist. She pressed her hands against the cold, metal windowsill, the bracelet sliding down and stopping before her knuckles. Her eyes were busy – the room she was watching was busy but gawkily still at the same time – people who weren't sure how to react but knew they should.

"What were you muttering?" he asked.

"He's awake," she said.

It was the strange, how everything just _happened_. There was solemnity in their entrance of the hospital room, the disappointment weighing on everyone's shoulders at their lack of anything new but the grace to pretend there was the semblance of something there. Yet within seconds of Dawn depositing one of her key chains into Lane's hands, Lane awoke, blue eyes weary but at the same time alert, focusing on the bewildered girl, and then, with a flick of the iris, the dilate of the pupil, focusing on him: Lucas, the boy who did ... nothing. He did nothing for once. No titles to follow that up with. A someone turned him into a nothing. Who was this someone?

She was a human female, a fourteen year-old bordering on fifteen. One who was five foot, one inch and on the lighter end of weight in comparison to other human weights. Her hat was white, dark-blue hair clipped back with white-gold barrettes. She wore a red scarf – he always found it awkward that the pair of them had red scarves they had carried with them for years now – with a pink, ruffled skirt that she loved to wear, so much so that she would walk in biting, freezing wind just to show off, to quote, her "fabulous legs." A personality that was nosy, interested in the things around her, refusing to allow her "subject" to get away without finding her answers. Someone who was determined, focused, confident in the face of adversity but still prone to weakness. Able to read into things, into the slight of movements, the smallest of expressions. A lover of sweets. A lover of cities. Sometimes forgetful. Means well. Overall confusing. Her name was Dawn.

He realized quickly that it was the feather that awoke Lane almost the very instance Lane's eyelids flickered open. He had no idea why; what properties in feathers would be able to awaken the boy from the sleeping spell that they still haven't pinpointed the reason for. He could make hypotheses. The feathers, which could be run under tests to see if they are from the cresselia breed, may contain some sort of material, a cure, which immediately entered Lane's body through his pores. The feathers could help alleviate future problems like this; perhaps it could even be used to create new remedies for those often fatigued. A new source of energy.

But when Dawn asked him, "How did he wake up?" he couldn't bring himself to answer her with his assumption. He was about to tell her that, could remember the answer burning on his lips, but suddenly stopped himself and said, "Who knows?" and tacked on a, "Maybe it's magic," a few seconds later, not to be condescending but because that's what it was: magic. Now, anyway. Maybe he wanted to humor her. What good would it have done to tell her it was the feathers when his theory was just as ridiculous as the myth this entire ordeal was possibly based on? _The feathers have some shit in them that did something to wake Lane up. I have no idea what. _Right. Good one.

There was an onslaught of questions when Lane awoke and after Dawn murmured, "Hello, Lane." How are you feeling? Are you okay? Did you call the doctor? Someone call the doctor (okay, that's not a question). But it was Lucas's ominous question that was answered first: "Did you dream?" He asked it so tersely, so alarmingly, that it startled everyone to stop talking in order to hear the answer.

Lane looked at him, confused. "I think," he said. "There was a castform in it. Oh, and I dreamed I failed my trainer's test." He scrunched his nose at the same time Lucas raised his eyebrows. "Then there was this thing with Julie and a train and some weird game. And Julie's mom's memorial"–Dawn noticed Alyson close her eyes tightly at the lackadaisical way her son said this–"and me being in Lance's cartoon. That one was neat."

Lucas dreamed of Barry's death, Cyrus chaining him to a pillar before killing him, and Dawn doing very friendly things. He told this to no one, lied about it to Dawn, and he vaguely wondered if the boy was lying too. He wouldn't pry into unwanted territory, though, and left it at that with a nod. Maybe Lane got off easier than Lucas did. Most people do.

Dawn brushed her fingers against Lucas's back as she passed him by. He turned away from the window to look at her, and she motioned him to follow her with the nudge of her head. "Let's leave them alone for tonight. It is late after all, and we had a long day," she said as they walked down the hospital's narrow hall toward one of the exits. The glass doors spotted with drops of rain opened when Dawn's boot hit the entrance mat, the cold, moist air engulfing them. Lucas crossed his arms, grasping his upper arms with his fingers while Dawn tugged at the ends of her scarf. She exhaled, watching her breath turn into condensation. "I used to pretend I was a smoker when it was this cold and you could see your breath."

"How healthy," he said dryly, fiddling with his keys, fingers brushing against the feather key chain Dawn gave him earlier. They walked down the ramp and hit the wet asphalt. Lucas kicked a nearby stone and watched it skitter across the pavement before coming to a rest near a marble water fountain topped with a blissey statuette. The wet walk reflected the streetlights, and they were entwined in the gold. He could see why Lane enjoyed the imagery.

Dawn locked arms with him as Lucas pocketed his hands in his jeans to keep his fingers warm. He felt her lean into him as he pointed his head up briefly and looked at the night sky still patched with clouds. He focused straight ahead toward the buildings where lights bled out the windows. Dawn had pressed the side of her face against his arm, comforted. It was only when he asked, "Now what?" that she pulled away and looked at him, bewildered. She didn't answer him, but he noticed her grip his arm tighter, like she was afraid. "I mean ... Lane's awake."

"Mhm," she said in agreement as she twisted the ball of her foot and let the loose asphalt crunch. She pulled her head away and turned her sight toward the black sea, letting her hair drape behind her back.

"So now what?" he repeated.

"That's up to you, really," she said.

"Huh?"

"That's up to you," she repeated.

"Why?"

"You had other plans before this, didn't you?"

"The Battle Frontier–"

"So you'll be going to that now," she interrupted as she turned her head straight, nostrils flaring.

He was taken aback by the fierceness in her tone. She didn't sound upset or angry but determined, focused on something. He didn't know why, but when he looked into her eyes, he quickly pieced together the reason. The tears were starting to form; she was determined not to cry. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, perturbed.

"What?"

"You're crying."

She wiped at her eyes with her free hand, nose wrinkled. "I am not," she said in the same firm tone from earlier.

"You're trying not to."

"Am not."

He grimaced, lips pursed. "Okay."

"Don't 'okay' me."

"Fine."

"None of that either."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You're avoiding my question."

"What question?"

"Why were you about to cry?"

Dawn released Lucas's arm to cross her own, fists pressed into her armpits. They wandered aimlessly down the street. It was only thirty-five minutes past nine, but the city was hushed – he amounted it to the rain. He separated the sounds. A car honked in the distance. Past the sound of the waves crashing into the docks were the kricketot hums. He turned his head toward the right to stare into the shops then turned back to the left and saw that the tears had returned. She sniffled, wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, and did her best to look stoic than broken.

"It's dumb," she said, stopping.

He fidgeted with the brim of his hat. "What?"

"That I miss you but you're still here."

"Miss me?"

Dawn exhaled slowly, watching her breath dissipate. "I like you, Lucas."

She said it slowly, or maybe time slowed down, like that one time when they almost kissed in Harbor Inn. (Apparently one of Dawn's many powers includes the slowing down of time.) He could make out each syllable, could see each slight shift of her mouth: the way her mouth smiled with the "I," the way her tongue flicked past her top front teeth with the "like," and the way her lips puckered with the "you." I like you. He liked the way she said it: so honest, rhetoric so simple, yet there was complexity with the mouth motion.

"I know," he said, blinking. He felt his nerves kick up, and he suppressed that energy into his feet as he rocked back and forth.

"I don't mean that in the stupid 'just as friends' way either. I really like you."

"I know," he said quietly.

She stopped in her tracks, staring at the tops of her boots as Lucas stared at the top of her head. He gently pulled on her elbow to move her away from the street and onto the sidewalk when the two of them were caught in the headlights of a passing car. They stood in the warm light of a bakery. Lucas looked inside, staring at the cakes positioned on clear pedestals, and tried to ignore the hunger pains that kicked up whenever the breeze blew and let the scent of baking bread drift in their direction. Dawn's left hand had dropped from her armpit so her fingers could slide around her pearl bracelet.

"Dawn," he said. He felt like he should do something. If they were in some sort of corny romance movie, he assumed he was supposed to raise her head by gently lifting up her chin, stare into her eyes, and tell her that things, whatever those things are, would be all right, but real life dictated that his attention should be more on the cakes than the girl. He wanted to do something – he felt like he should – but his limbs didn't obey his corny thoughts. All he could say was her name. He suspected she was waiting, probably waiting for him to say it back, but he couldn't even do that. It was frustrating.

Dawn lifted her head and twirled her bracelet around her pointer finger. Her eyes were no longer watery. "I suppose," she said slowly, "that isn't enough to make you stay here."

He laced his fingers behind his neck, ripped his eyes away from the cakes to look at her, and said delicately, "I'm afraid not."

He watched her sharply intake breath as she paused. "I know," she finally murmured. "I figured I should try. I had to, you know? Just so I wouldn't wonder."

"It's what _I _like about you."

He noticed Dawn look at him curiously at this statement, but he didn't bother clarifying. He dropped his hands, letting them swing by his side. They continued to walk down the pavement patched in wet and dry because of the striped awnings that hung above the shop doors. As they walked, he felt Dawn's fingers brush against the back of his hand before entwining themselves with his. He stared at their moving, distorted reflection in the window of a darkened shop lit by a streetlamp across the street.

"I guess," she began, looking at Lucas, "in a way I'm sad this is all over. Don't get me wrong – I'm glad Lane's awake. But ... it's just ... I feel like something is over. It's silly. Nothing is over. Nothing is ever over. Nothing has even happened. But repeating that in your head doesn't make that feeling go away in your heart. I don't want what whatever we have to be over, Lucas."

Lucas awkwardly looked away from Dawn's face and toward the sea, noticing rope curled around the railing. He desperately tried to change the subject; Dawn's current rambling was the last thing he wanted to talk about. "When I was little," he began, lightly pressing his fingers against the back of her knuckles, "my mom brought me to some amusement park. You know, one of those historic things. She said it would be educational. I think Barry came with us." He mentally scratched his head at the randomness of this conversation.

She was looking at their hands, and Lucas knew that she was thinking about why he ignored her last statement and began his own train of thought. She played along. "Sounds cute," she replied without looking up. "What did you do there?"

"I learned how to make rope."

"Yeah?"

"It was the most boring thing ever. Then the guy made the rope into a lasso and pulled me in with it, and I dropped my ice cream. Not a fun day. Evil stuff, rope."

Dawn brought their entwined hands up and pressed her cold nose against the back of his hand. "I don't get you," she said, her lips brushing against his skin. "One day you treat me like I'm some sort of swamp thing and the next day you're telling me bouts about your childhood."

They stopped at a street sign lit by a nearby streetlight. He knew he should be leading them back home before it got too late and too cold, but he found that he didn't want to leave. Something strange washed over him, like that one guilty feeling in the library except it rested more in his throat than the pit of his stomach. Was he feeling sad that this was all over, too?

He tried to rid himself of the emotion. "Does that bother you?"

"It's what I like about you."

The wash hit him harder. They stood next to a streetlight. Lucas ran his free hand down the concrete pillar while Dawn gripped their entwined hands tighter. "Besides," she added with a tight-lipped grin, "I like a challenge."

They stood there as Dawn swung their hands back and forth and Lucas pressed his hand harder against the streetlight, staring up at the golden bulb that drenched his face in its light. It had started to drizzle. Dawn lifted her face and let the light rain sprinkle down on her, bangs sticking to her forehead. Lucas mused that during this point of a corny romance movie, he was suppose to cup her face in his hands and kiss her, but he didn't have the balls to do anything but seduce the streetlight with his strokes.

He was fine, you know, fine with the way he was. He knew he was alone; he didn't mind that he was alone because things are better off that way for him and for everyone else. He hated hurting people because he had to leave all the time, and it's better to cut ties in one clean, but painful, swoop. _It's me caring for others by not caring for others._ But in such a short span of time, Dawn took years of carefully crafted logic, made it look apeshit retarded, and flipped it onto its head, and suddenly he cared for someone else. Goddammit. He had to get over it. It's for the fucking best, Lucas.

"Let's go home," she said as she dragged the top of her boot in circles across the pavement while letting go of his hands to curl hers into the sleeves of her jacket. "I just wanna go home and put on warm pajamas and cozy up in bed with a cup of tea and a book." Her eyes followed down the concrete path that slowly stripped away Canalave's civilization the further away she looked. "Don't you wanna put on dry clothes and just bask in the relief of this finally being over?"

No, that was the last thing he wanted. They weren't soaked–yet, anyway, and they wouldn't be if Lucas could pull his stupid hand away from the sexy, sexy lamppost and get out his umbrella–but he would rather stay wet than give into the future dooming him to be alone and the thought process that kept telling him that him being alone was a good thing. He had no idea what that had to do with umbrellas. His thoughts were all tumbling around in his head like jeans in a dryer, thick and heavy and filled with loose change that rattled around or something. He had no idea what the hell he was thinking anymore other than corny thoughts that didn't match his interactions in real life. And laundry.

"Yeah," he finally said. He pulled his hand away and curled it into a fist. That wasn't what he wanted to say. That wasn't what he was thinking.

Dawn smiled at him and nudged him in the arm with her elbow. "Come on, you dork. Let's go." She started to walk forward, toward the future (enough with the corny metaphors that pass as thoughts, Lucas) while he lingered in the past (what did I just say about this metaphor?), or what was going to be the past but was still currently the present, and now more rambling brought to you by Mr. Mime Floor Cleanser™. He had to say something.

"Dawn," he said, mouth tugged down, eyes squinted as he took a step forward when she was already five steps ahead.

She stopped and turned her head, hair swinging to the side. "What?" Her eyes caught the golden glint of the streetlight. Lucas started to breathe heavily for some reason – he had no idea why – as his nerves maneuvered back up his legs and rested in the back of his throat and noticed that, hey, these tonsils make good punching bags: let's practice boxing with them. What was so hard about saying what he wanted to say, that she wasn't all that bad to be around? That he, too, didn't want to leave behind the "whatever" they had built up to do his own stuff and for her to do her own? He wanted her to use that timing slowing power she had.

She instead used another power. Lucas wondered how she did it sometimes, how she could read into people's facial expressions and assume–usually correctly–the things a person was so concerned about. He assumed she would have giggled in glee about his new feelings toward her and bug him with whatever schoolyard taunt she could think of, but her empathy overrode all, and maybe she needed the comfort, too. She knew he was worried about time. She knew that he ... that he ... Disgusting stuff. That's all you need to know. Disgusting, cutesy stuff. How pathetic. He couldn't even say it in his head.

Get over it, he repeated in his head. Get over her. You have to.

"We do need to come back tomorrow," she said as she took two wide steps forward to stand next to his side again. "To check in on Lane and all that fun stuff." She pulled on his arm to make him start walking down the gold, empty streets like he was a stubborn jackass, and he obliged.

"Yeah," he said.

"And, you know, you do need to pack up for that Battle Frontage–"

"Frontier," he muttered.

"Same diff. I mean, that's an extra day or something, isn't it?"

Not really. "Yeah."

"So don't worry about time," she said.

"I'm not." He was.

The concrete stopped and the long grass started, tangling around their ankles. She let go of his arm and walked ahead, stretching her hands over her head and grasping at the air. "Hey, question," she said, stepping on a twig and cracking it in half. "Important question!"

Lucas put his hands on top of his head, elbows extended out. "What?"

"There's a fair coming to Jubilife in a couple of days, and since you're going to be here still for a couple more days, I thought you'd might like to go with me. It'll be super fun. We'll get hyped on sugar and we can both vomit it up on the zipper ride."

He looked at her funny as she stopped in her tracks, smiling. "What do you say?"

"I ..." He was expected to be at the Battle Frontier in a couple of days–they were angry enough that he had put it off for so long–and as much as he wanted to stay, he knew he couldn't. He was about to say no, tell her that he had things to do, people to see, pokémon to battle, any excuse he could muster so he could unfortunately return to the life he had become so accustom to, and that he could go with her to something else later if she still wanted to–maybe, if they were lucky–but her eyes suddenly snapped up towards his and quickly swept back and forth, reading his face. And like that, a light hope disappeared into heavy disappointment.

"I keep forgetting that you've got other stuff to do," she said with a forced laugh, trying to ease the tension. "Sorry. Don't worry about it. I mean, I've got other stuff to do too and ... yeah."

She was the one making excuses now? "Well, I'm glad you understand, I guess. I do gotta get out of here as soon as I can," he said, dropping one hand to run it down his pokéball belt. Torterra, Lucario, Magmortar, Honchkrow ...

Honchkrow ...

Shit. He made a promise to the damn bird that he would take her out. The damn bird knew saw this coming. Lucas would have to thank him later.

"Well, wait," he sighed with fake exasperation. Might as well pretend that he wouldn't enjoy it for now. "I guess I can go if it means that much to you."

She opened her mouth, surprised. "Really?" she asked. "I mean, I was just throwing it out there, and I thought you might want to, and if you have to leave, I don't want to stop you–"

"I want to," he said. For once, the thought matched the dialogue.

She wrapped him into a hug and clung around his shoulders as she kicked her legs up, and he melted into her.

Dawn swiped Lucas's hat off his head and threw it on top of her own. "Come on!" she said gleefully, skipping backward, his hat bouncing. "If we make it home fast enough, my mom might make us something to eat!"

Free food was all the motivation he needed to hurry him up. Before he could chase her down, something vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out his cellphone and read the text on his screen.

. . . . . . . . .

**From**: 011-555-5215  
**To**: 011-555-2134

**Fwd**: _Hey, it's Dawn! Hope you don't mind that I got your number from Lucas's phone. I think me and Lucas are going to Jubilife's annual festival in a couple days, though I still gotta ask him. I was wondering if you'd like to come join us if you're in the area! It'll be super fun! Call or text me back so we can sort out stuff! Love, Dawn_

You fucking jackass. You told me you didn't have her number. I will see you there. And I'm fining you a million dollars for that. – Barry

. . . . . . . . .

"Lucas!" Dawn stamped her foot and pouted. She was already a few feet ahead. "Hurry up!"

She really couldn't stop meddling with things, could she?

He groaned and chased after her.

He'll get over her another day.

* * *

**And they lived happily ever after. The End.**

* * *

"What? That's it?"

"What do you mean 'that's it?' Of course that's it." He closed the notebook and gently patted its worn-out cover. He pushed himself further up the bed, causing the springs to groan under his weight, and pressed his back against the oak headboard.

"Daddy, you can't just end a story with 'And they lived happily ever after, the end,' and expect it to just be finished."

"No, Laney?" He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against his daughter's, and grinned as her blues stared into his. She kissed him on the cheek, pulled back, and giggled as she swiped the old, red notebook from his grasp. He tucked his tangled hair behind her ear. "Then you tell me how the story should end."

She scrambled to sit straight in her dad's lap and pulled open the cover. "You're suppose to kiss her and sweep her off her feet." She brought both hands to her face to stifle her embarrassed laughter. "Besides," she added, "I still have no idea what happened to everyone."

"No?" He stared up at the ceiling lamp that was connected to a ceiling fan circulating cool air.

"I mean ... what happened to everyone afterward?"

The father turned toward the door and saw the warm eyes of Laney's mother peek through the open crack, a smile on her face. While she wouldn't pester him to wrap things up, he could tell she was getting anxious about Laney going to sleep soon; she had school tomorrow, and it was already forty minutes passed her usual bedtime.

"You, sweetheart, need to sleep," he said as he tore his eyes away from the pink door and jigglypuff wallpaper to look at the little girl.

"Please, Daddy?" She pouted and crossed her arms, notebook resting in her lap. "Just tell me what happened to everyone really, really, really, really fast, and I'll sleep really, really, really–"

"I get it," he interrupted with a laugh as he pulled his daughter further up. She leaned against him and nuzzled her head below his chin while propping the notebook up in her hands. She turned to the last page her father read to her and stared at the messy cursive. "Who do you want to start with?"

"Aly and Eldritch!" she repeated.

The dad brought his left hand up and ran it down his cheek to chin, feeling the stubble. "Well," he said slowly, softly, "you know they were fighting, right?"

She nodded eagerly. The top of her head rubbed against his chin, leaving a tickling sensation. "And you said that you and momma wouldn't fight like that."

He grimaced. "Right."

"So are they okay? They stayed together and stuff?"

He watched the wooden blades of the ceiling fan circle . "Yeah, sweetie," he said slowly. "Eldritch and Aly ... They managed to work things out and ..." he paused, heart beating rapidly.

She took notice and looked up. "What about them?" she repeated.

He hesitated, scraping his top teeth against his dry bottom lip. "Eldritch was still a fine sailor – is. He is. Aly, once Lane left for his journey, decided to run a pokémon daycare. They're well, those two."

She seemed satisfied with the answer much to his relief, so he asked, "Who else would you like to know about? Lane?"

She nodded again and turned her head slightly.

"Well, after Lane got better in the hospital, he returned back to school."

"Yuck." She stuck out her tongue.

"And at nine, he got his trainer's I.D. and his first pokémon and started his journey."

"So ..." The girl's face screwed up in confusion. "Why did he start his journey at nine?"

"Some people need to, Laney."

"Need to?"

He nodded. "Burning desire and all that. He did become a pretty good trainer if I do say so myself. His starter was a buizel that went on to win the speed swimmer championship in the pokéathlon in Johto against Misty's starmie. And he did, I must say, get the dragonite he long desired for and is quite the accomplished dragon tamer." He smiled to himself and kissed his daughter's head through her hair. She turned around to face the alarm clock on her polished chestnut nightstand, resting the side of her face below his chin and curling up.

Laney's murmured in response, hands losing their grip on the notebook. Her father tenderly lifted her up so he could remove her from his lap and lay her down, placing her head on the pillow. He gently pried the notebook from her hands. "I think you're too sleepy to hear the rest," he said, pulling the blanket over her and tucking her in. "I'll tell you tomorrow night."

"No," Laney moaned tiredly, eyes still closed. "Tell me ... tell me about–" She yawned.

The father sat on the edge of the bed, fingers pressed against the metal spiral that had unraveled six holes from the bottom. "Lucas and Dawn?"

"Mhmm ..."

He took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. "They're something, too. The end."

"Daaaaad ..."

His smile widened. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Laney's tired form. "All right. After that fair in Jubilife, Lucas went off to the Battle Frontier. Dawn worked on her thesis, more inspired than ever. Lucas is still a decent trainer, I suppose, and Dawn is as annoying as ever."

The little girl giggled, opening her eyes a crack. "And that's all that happened?"

He nodded.

"No kiss at all?"

He shook his head. "None at all."

"So he did get over her?"

He shrugged.

"He's a brat."

"I agree." He kissed Laney's forehead. "Now sleep. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

She looked back at him, sleepy-eyed. "Good night, Daddy."

He stood back up and stretched his arms over his head, fingers pressed into the gaps between the notebook's coil. He strode over to the door and flicked the light switch down; the ceiling light turned off, and the gentle glow of the teddiursa night light illuminated the room. As he opened the door and was about to slip out, Laney's voice rung out again. "Daddy?"

He poked his head into the room. "Hmm?"

"Thanks for telling me that story."

He smiled and nodded to himself. "You're welcome. Sweet dreams." He closed the door. His wife was leaning against the wall adjacent to it.

"You're such a liar," she said with a smirk, arms crossed.

"Prove it," he challenged, fanning through the notebook's pages with his thumb.

"I listened to your 'epilogue.'"

He rolled the notebook into a tube and stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. "And?" he asked, walking down the hallway, his wife following after him. He stretched his arm out and brushed his fingers against the white plaster wall.

"You twisted the facts."

The father emerged from the hallway and into the living room, his eyes directing themselves on a family portrait hanging above the brick fireplace taken a couple of years ago before Ben left for his journey. He looked so baby-faced back then, cheeks chubby, dark-blue hair sticking up at the cowlick even though his mother tried her best to flatten it down with her fingers and, much to his dismay, her saliva. He guessed the boy was still baby-faced (and would always be to his mom), only recently hitting a growth spurt and, again much to his dismay, a change in his voice that would send his voice bending down only to randomly rocket back up with a crack. Evan, two years older than Ben, was threatened to return home for a week, with one day dedicated to the portrait and the other six used to feed him adequate nutrition.

Laney's mom took notice of what her husband was staring at. She wrapped her arms around him and stood on tippy-toe to rest her chin on his shoulder. "It's weird to think that Elaine is near Lane's age back when we first met him," she said.

"Give or take 730 days."

She rolled her eyes. "Number technicalities. Point is that we're old." She reached out and grabbed the rolled-up notebook from her husband's pocket, unfurling it and trying to flatten down the cover that was bending upward. "So why the lies? When you finally agreed to tell Elaine that story, you told me you were going to be one-hundred percent truthful about it, give or take a few details. Oh, I also love how you worded that one dream."

"Dawny dear did do very 'friendly' things," he replied. "And who said those dreams stopped?" His wife smacked him in the rear with the notebook but smiled nonetheless. "Let's chalk up my little 'epilogue' to one of those 'give or take a few' details."

"It's strange is all. Of all things to lie about ..."

"It's more of a twist of the truth."

"A lie," she repeated.

"Most truths are opinion anyway."

He wiggled out of his wife's grip and lead her to the couch, sitting down. She flipped through the notebook as he looked out the open window, the night air pleasant on his skin. He looked out; the contest hall, the biggest one in Sinnoh, was the brightest building in the city, the lights outside its clear doors flashing different colors and its roof alight with LED bulbs. There was a contest going on; he was surprised that his wife didn't bother him to call a babysitter for the night and go with her, but he figured that she wanted him to finish the story he had been telling Laney for the past few nights.

He ran his hand down the top of the couch, his fingers picking up dust that floated from the outside into the quaint two-story house. His wife had curled her legs up, the leather making scrunching noises as she did so, and tucked her socked feet under her rump. He let his fingers dangle out the window, letting the wind graze it.

A girl once told him that stories were one part telling, the other part interpreting. Different people pick up certain wording, certain vocalization, and convert it into something that may not resemble the original source. As a storyteller, you become aware of these sorts of things: what one person picks up as significant is something that someone else might brush off as unimportant.

Truth, he realized, was too concrete. When you believe something as true, it takes a lot to rip your mind away from it. It leaves your brain inflexible to change. This is what works. We don't need other solutions. Storytelling opens you to possibilities because it's not entirely truthful; you're aware of its subjectivity and you take it with a grain of salt. You are able to see different perspectives.

His truth was that everyone was happier without him in their lives. His truth was that it was him not caring for others that made him care for others. He believed this for years; it was the conclusion he came to after years of observation. It took a kiss from a girl with a red scarf and a hard knock in the back of the head from a blond-haired boy to snap him out of it.

Cynthia used myths to find truths. Lucas used myths to hide them.

Eldritch was, indeed, a fine sailor. He loved adventure; he loved the sea. A good man in most regards but thrown into situations too early. He left his pregnant wife when she was five months pregnant with their second child, another boy Alyson would name Robert Luke. Alyson said Eldritch and she had their issues to work out, that her being pregnant wasn't the straw that broke that camel's back, that them separating was better for the baby because it was supposedly less stressful, but it didn't give Lane solace.

"'Real men are sailors,'" the dragon tamer would mock one night in a bar in Johto. "Leaving your wife when she was five-goddamn-months pregnant is manly alright."

Lucas told him that Eldritch did remain in his children's lives, even if he and his ex-wife were on shaky terms, and was still a concrete presence in Robert's life until the very end, and Lane shouldn't forget all the good his father had done, but Lane snorted and chugged down his second beer, slamming the glass bottle on the polished wood bar top.

"Even before then, he'd be gone for months, Lu, months. I slept with my door open, paranoid that he would be leaving without saying goodbye. And when he was gone, I still slept with my door open just so I would know the very moment he came back. It rattled me."

"I used to be annoyed with how protective my mom was, but now I get why," the twenty-nine year old added. "She was afraid of losing me. We went through rough times, me and my mom, and I sent back as much money as I could without starving myself when I became a trainer. I know she probably wanted me to stick around when Rob was born, but we needed the money. So fuck that man. He left his wife with no means to support herself."

Lane was only seven years younger than him but spoke with questionable rage that reminded Lucas of the despise he had after the Team Galactic conflict. The both of them were forced into positions they weren't meant to be in at that age; they had to grow up too fast. Lane only recently hit his rage-point as Lucas called it; he vaguely wondered if Lane's finalization as one of Johto's Elite Four members was what unleashed the rage he had at his childhood, much like Lucas's first championship win unleashed his, but at least Lane channeled his anger at appropriate times where it didn't consume his life.

Of course, he could be angry at other things. Eldritch died a few months ago, a few days after Lane got inducted into the Elite 4, from a heart attack.

"He would," Lane said. "Whenever I think about my induction, I think about his death. Lovely."

"You're angry that he died," Lucas replied quietly, peeling the beer label off his bottle.

"No shit."

Lane only went to the funeral because his brother and mother begged him to go. Lucas watched Lane in the front row stare stoically at his father's mahogany casket, one hand tightly gripping the hand of his mother's, as the minister muttered something corny that Rob would later comment his father would laugh at. It was at the reception that Lane would see Julie again, a coordinator who specialized in water-types. Rob would also comment that if Lane and Julie, who were currently dating, got married, the best man's toast would be awkward. "'Well, they both found each other at Dad's funeral and ...' Insert some sort of joke with bad taste."

"Lane, similarly, was stiff in certain body parts," Barry chimed in.

"Exactly."

"Memorials, you know, are Julie's and my thing," Lane later said. "It's a little creepy."

They never really talked about it, Lane's sleeping spell, not because they were afraid to talk about it but because Lane really didn't know what to say.

"I'm telling you the truth," Lane answered for the nth time as he sat between Lucas and his wife on a bench as they watched Elaine and Rob's daughter run around the jungle gym in a Sinnoh park. "All I remember was me being in Lance's old cartoon, something with a castform, failing my trainer's test, and Julie's mom's memorial."

"I dreamed of Barry dying," Lucas replied quietly. "And I remember you were in it when you were little, which was weird. We were wearing trench coats and were trying to stop a lady from stealing dishwater soap. Then I was chained to a pillar and Cyrus killed me. Lucario was a riolu, who then turned into a castform that tried to chew my ankle off. There was someone talking during all of this, telling me that he thought I'd understand what was going on, why he was doing this to me. He wanted to stop me from helping you. He knew everything about me. It hated me."

"Darkrai?" Lane asked.

"You were disturbing his energy sack," the wife said idly. "Darkrai sustain energy through their prey while they're sleeping; the myth is that the prey's dream is converted into energy. It's not something you can actually prove, but sleeping prey is easier to deal with than one that is awake. Dreams are influenced by even the most minute events that we witness in real life. Because Darkrai was on your mind, Lucas, it makes sense that you would dream of it."

"But I don't know if I did," Lucas said. "I just remember someone ... talking, narrating through the events happening. I don't know if it was Darkrai or my conscious."

"It's a little odd that Lane only has scattered recollection of his dreams that weren't as deranged as yours, Lu. You can recall them vividly. When you both awoke, you were completely wiped out while Lane was bouncing all over the place as soon as he awoke."

"My mom said I always had too much energy and wished I would be a little quieter," Lane said with a grin. "Like I said, I don't recall anything negative. I awoke happy if anything."

"I didn't," Lucas muttered.

"You weren't happy to begin with back then," his wife chimed in.

Alyson, meanwhile, had to sell the house in Canalave due to monetary constraints. She moved back to Kanto to live with her sister who helped her get back on her feet, though Alyson fell into depression all the same.

"Understandable," Lane told him that same night in the bar. "She was going through a divorce, she had a new baby to take care of, and her oldest child was in a region far away with their only communication being his scribbled 'I love you' notes tucked in the cash he sent to her monthly. But I'm proud of her. She finally became independent after wanting it for so long. She went back to school, Lu, got licensed to be a pokémon breeder. Runs a successful business. Bought her own house.

"She's messed up in her own right, but I suppose we all are."

He didn't comment on his mom's suicide attempts, an overdose when Rob was one year-old and again when Rob started his journey nine years later. Maybe that was slotted into the "messed up in her own right" part. Lucas supposed his own description of "doing well" was an odd way to describe Eldritch and Aly respectively.

Lucas could tell Lane was still messed up over his father leaving, his adventure being more of a job (compared to his dad finding his job to be more of an adventure), his mother's depression, and, finally, his father's death. He seemed to find solace in his new job–being a gym leader was busy enough; the Elite 4 was triple that–and with Julie and a support system of close friends. At least Lane was smart enough to know that he needed people in his life during his darkest times, unlike Lucas years back who felt having friends would make it worse.

It took a kiss and a blow to the head to make him snap out of it, not one after the other and not necessarily in that order. It was hard to leave her at first, but he knew he had to – champion duties and all that fun stuff. Barry was pretty much the reason why Lucas kept contact with her so constantly, almost to the point that _she_was the one that said, "Enough already." He blamed Barry. Barry pointed to himself on the video chat Lucas was having with her and called himself his pimp.

"That's not what a pimp is," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Then I'm just awesome," he replied haughtily.

When Barry saw him again after their fallout, he immediately smacked him for "various things," as he would call it, and pretty much ignored the tension. It was like nothing happened between them, though that might be because neither of them discussed their time apart. It was awkward when either of them tried to bring it up, or it just amounted to bad timing where Lucas would be called for emergency champion duties or Barry, who had taken his father's place in the Battle Frontier, would have to jet off to deal with a challenger. If not that, one of them would go off tangent and talk about something goofy, and the other person would laugh to ease the tension.

Barry, funny enough, had the most normal adolescent phase out of the bunch of them–as normal as adolescents can get–even though he was definitely the oddest. Lane always grew alarmed with Barry's ability to stop things at the drop of a hat and forget prior engagements. "Lack of commitment makes me uneasy," he said.

"Don't press your daddy issues on me," Barry muttered. "Wasn't like my dad was all that present in my life either. Lucas's, too, but his plethora of issues is from entirely different things, like his silly hat and some shit about hating myths that acts as a facade for his hatred toward Cynthia."

Lucas stared dully at him as Barry continued, "Not like I have a family anyway."

He knocked up some chick during a one-night stand a few weeks after he said that. She was currently seven months pregnant. They weren't dating and probably never would.

Dawn, meanwhile ... Well, she was Dawn. After Lucas left after the fair, she, too, left Sandgem, spread her wings, and made it all the way to Jubilife, the next town over. "Well, it's true," she remarked on the video phone. "The people do come to me here." She did venture out and visited her beloved Hearthrome among other cities and continued her study. She met Bebe who was impressed with Dawn's thesis and gave her an eevee to help. After half a year, the eevee had evolved into an espeon, which became Dawn's main focus in her first published paper. She was currently published in a few scientific journals, some with her maiden name and some without.

It was hard keeping in touch with her, even though he wanted to and was forced to for a while by Barry. Sometimes the times were off; he was either busy or she was. Sometimes he was in areas where she couldn't call him; sometimes she was in areas where he couldn't call her. At times he wanted to give up, but she was right that one night years ago: she was stuck in his head and she wouldn't go away easily. But slowly, their connection start to fade. They started to drift apart, and soon they were back in a position of being nothing more than acquaintances. Both of them were too busy to be saddened by it and both of them saw it coming. Barry was mad, like they were only keeping in touch to keep Barry happy, but he, too, got over it. Dawn and he went only saw each other for a couple of days every few months to check in with Rowan, and their meetings were awkward but polite. He figured it was for the best; they both had goals that required their full attention.

She sprung a kiss on him one spring night, making him melt into her all over again.

They were still far apart, though Lucas managed to localize himself more in the Sinnoh region (though he had to go out of the region every now and then), but he made a conscious effort to see her at least once a week. They dated for a couple of years before he, too, sprung a surprise on her, only it came in a velvet box and was able to cut glass. He, as usual, stumbled on his words, and the romantic event took place in Rowan's laboratory as she was discussing the unusual feces size of the newborn turtwig. They married in Amity Square, only a few blocks away from their current home. Rowan became ordained to marry them off, stating he wanted to be a part of the day where his two favorite prior apprentices got married, which Dawn found endearing and Lucas found creepy. Rowan had retired a few years ago when he was diagnosed with early Alzheimer's. Dawn was currently trying to transfer the files in Sandgem to the laboratory she worked at in Hearthrome but with little success.

And Lucas?

Still champion. He did lose a few times. The first time was when he was seventeen due to him being a dumbass. The second time was when he was twenty-five and Dawn was expected to go into labor with Evan, their first child, any second. The third time was only a few months ago; apparently Eldritch's death had played a bigger role than expected. All three trainers, now champions, that defeated him rejected to play the "official" role, to serve as the figurehead champion, which brought Lucas secret relief. Ignoring the whole "What the hell will I do for a job?" thing, Lucas always believed he was the best person for the job. There's no one you can trust more than yourself. Some truths die hard. Some truths don't die at all.

He did publish a few books on battle techniques and was currently co-writing a paper with Dawn on how battling effects the relationship between trainer and pokémon, but other than that, he was nothing with his champion role. "You never lose your roles," she told him. "You're always going to be your mama's baby, Rowan's apprentice, or that silly boy with the hat."

"None of those pay," he replied dryly, running his finger down the brim of his old beret.

"I realized that love is amounted in cash," Lane would tell him a few weeks later in the Johto bar after Lucas's conversation with Dawn. "I felt like I wouldn't be lovin' my mom if I didn't help support our family, and I felt my dad's love only came through the signed checks. I think my universal truth is that nothing is solid without the money to back it up."

"How unfortunate," Lucas commented back, still on his first beer while Lane was on his fourth.

"Is it not true?"

"I used to think sex, money, and power were the three things that motivated people, and that people use one of those objects to get the other, and it was all meaningless in the end."

"Now you don't think that?"

"No, I still think that. I just realized that those three things can branch out into something beautiful."

"Like cherry blossoms on trees," Barry commented idly.

"Like cherry blossoms on trees," he repeated. "It just depends on the direction you take it. You can't lose sight of that simple motivation behind that motivation."

"I do it for my mom," Lane said.

"Myself and my pokémon," Barry commented. He looked at Lucas. "You?"

"Dawn," he answered.

The three of them didn't talk after this, the blare of the television and the conversations of other groups enveloping them before Lane said, "That was the lamest thing I have ever heard you say."

"Seriously," Barry tacked on. "Get more drunk."

"Or is it less?" Lane joked.

We learn from other people's stories. If there's anything he learned from Cynthia, it was this. After knowing Lane's story, Lucas learned to be very present in his children's lives, even if it meant blowing off important meetings to watch Evan's baseball game, Ben's science fair presentation, or Elaine's ballet recital. No matter where he was in the Sinnoh region, or even if he was in another region, he made sure to make it home a few times a week. He'd keep his friends close. He'd work out troubling things with his wife.

Why did you lie and end the story on a good note? Because he could? Because he got a sick thrill lying to a child who hinged on every word he said? He honestly didn't know. When Dawn asked him to read to Elaine, and when Elaine, while looking through the bookshelves in his den, picked out his old notebook instead of the usual fairy tale that lined the bottom shelf, he told himself that he would tell this moment of his life exactly as he remembered it during the days he wrote those passages, give or take a few curse words. But when it came to the end–the epilogue as Dawn called it–he couldn't bring himself to say what was really happening.

The myth, in the end, is a myth. There was enough distance between this section of his past and his current position that he was unafraid to look at it, unafraid to speak of it, unafraid to judge it. This is what Cynthia did in order to understand a culture's history; this is why she passively stood by. Lucas's history, his role in defeating Team Galactic, was important, but it was a story that he could never tell without bias; there was just too much emotional baggage. Cynthia, who stood at a distance, could tell this story for him. Her mantra was learning of a myth to learn of a people. His was to protect people. Both roles are necessary for the world to evolve: a hope for a future and the remembrance of the past.

When it came to the present situation, Lucas couldn't answer Elaine truthfully; he couldn't separate the storyteller from his story. This part of the story was still in motion. He didn't know how it would end. He preferred it that way.

To tell a story is to tell yourself. He could only hope that people would remain not just as storytellers but as stories instead. It is, after all, how you find the truth.

"Dawn," he said, snapping his head away from the night to look at her.

She looked up from his notebook and smiled. "Yeah?"

"I love you."

She closed the notebook and handed it to him. "I love you too." She stretched over and kissed him before leaning against him. He wrapped his arms around her, their legs outstretched on the couch. The two of them looked out the window as Dawn reached up and pulled his hat off his head. "I see you're not over me yet."

"I blame the bird."

She laughed. "And they lived happily ever after?"

"They lived happily."

Dawn smiled up at him. "That's good enough for me."


End file.
